Mhazul watches from his distant perch, arms still folded, eyes half-lidded like he's watching a game he already knows the ending to. The wind from Virela's last shockwave reaches him seconds later, tugging at the loose strands of his hair.
"She could have killed them in minutes," he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "But she's playing with them."
His tone is flat, neither approving nor disapproving—just stating a fact.
Far away from the battlefield, far even from the monster tide, the air itself bends in unnatural stillness.
Grathum's molten skin pulses faintly beneath his stony armor, the magma lines across his body glowing like veins of fire. His massive arms rest on the haft of a jagged obsidian warhammer, its head still steaming from the heat it constantly bleeds.
