The sky above Sector Eight was torn.
Clouds spun like they were being dragged through a grinder, black streaks swallowing the stars, red light bleeding in jagged lines across the horizon. The earth itself cracked with every pulse, waves of pressure rolling outward as if the world was choking on its own breath.
And at the center of it stood Eron.
His coat snapped in the wind, long hair spilling wild across his shoulders. One arm was raised, fingers spread wide, pulling at the world. The sector bent to his will. Towers collapsed. Roads split apart. Magic—raw, unstable, and suffocating—spiraled from his body in storms.
Vyn arrived just as another block folded in on itself, devoured by a vortex of flame and steel.
She stepped from the ripple of a teleport and hovered above the broken cityscape, her silver eyes narrowing. Her cloak fluttered once, then stilled.
For a long moment, she only watched.
