It was then that Kharzun realized too late.
His eyes widened by a fraction as he saw the dead gargoyles, the reshaped battlefield, and the covered allies.
His full attention fell onto Lucien like a mountain shifting its shadow.
An Emperor's attention was not something a lesser being could afford.
It was pressure that made the spirit want to kneel.
Kharzun moved.
His vast body did not need to swing. It needed only to trample.
Lucien fled sideways, leading him away from the frozen allies, buying time by bleeding distance.
Half a minute.
That was all he had to survive.
And in those seconds, a lifetime happened.
Lucien was caught in petrified geometry.
He ripped himself free by shedding slime mass, leaving chunks of himself behind like torn skin.
Blood magic speared his side.
Grave magic followed like a decree, trying to turn the wound into a permanent clause.
Lucien was bloody all over.
Then Kharzun's body surged forward.
A final blow.
