The battlefield was a storm of destruction.
Fire and light flared against the twisted gloom of chains and warped probability, every clash shaking the very bones of the mountain.
Atreides stood at the center of it all, blazing like a miniature sun, his radiance a constant insult to the shadows that Kant and Maren weaved against him.
Each attack split the air like thunder, and each counter rippled reality itself, but though the two Elders worked seamlessly in tandem, their opponent only laughed.
"You call this a fight?" Atreides bellowed, his voice carrying even above the roar of destruction. His fists blazed, hurling arcs of flame that reduced soldiers and rubble alike to molten slag.
"If I had known the mighty Elders of Carthage were this weak, I would've walked into your city years ago. Instead I wasted my time in the shadows, waiting. Hiding! For what? For you?"
