The walls cracked.
Chunks of obsidian ceiling dropped like meteors as the sheer presence of power tore through the underground ruin.
The lava in the surroundings hissed in retreat, shadows evaporated, and for an instant, the entire chamber held its breath.
Then the fathers moved.
Crisaius was the first to change.
His bones didn't crack—they sang.
It was like a chorus of something ancient and insane.
His already wild hair erupted backward like a crimson mane made of living fire. His wiry old frame pulsed with life as crimson-red scales bloomed across his limbs in fractal patterns.
His fingers elongated just enough to leave claw marks in the air as he flexed, and his eyes? Glowing red orbs—spinning, manic, focused.
He looked like someone who had decided bedtime stories were for cowards. (Image in comments.)
Argon, by contrast, transformed with a whisper—an exhale that crushed the ground beneath him.
