The holy light fell.
The golden wounds in the sky bled radiance, widening as they poured their searing benediction upon the land. Below, where the light touched the earth, the Shadow Banshees that could not flee in time simply dissolved, their final, silent screams absorbed by the brilliance.
Swathes of their kind were unmade in an instant.
Nor were the other corrupted things spared. Where the holy light fell upon their twisted forms, they ignited like oil-doused torches, their flesh burning away in plumes of foul-smelling, purified smoke.
It was a power unlike anything Orion had ever witnessed—a single spell that commanded the entire sky. It was brutal. It was absolute.
He couldn't help but glance at Alexander. The assassin stood motionless, his face an impassive mask, his senses stretched thin, tasting the vibrations of the void.
"What is this power, Alexander?" Orion asked, swallowing hard.
