The air quaked.
Marc's wrist was still locked in Silas's hand, the glow sputtering between their palms. The masked figure tilted his head faintly, as if curious. His other hand rose, palm open, space around it bending like stretched glass.
Silas didn't wait.
His fist shot forward, a blur faster than thunder. It slammed into Marc's chest, the impact detonating the air. The masked figure flew back through a ridge, the mountain behind him collapsing into dust.
The ground shook for miles.
Silas stood still, his chest heaving once. His eyes narrowed. "You picked the wrong fight."
The rubble shifted. Marc stepped out. Not stumbled—stepped. Dust fell from his shoulders, mask cracked further, but his body unshaken. He lifted his hand again. Reality twisted, streets folding like paper, gravity bending toward him.
