"We have to leave."
Narg's warning never finished.
The dome shuddered once, twice, then split open with a violent crack.
The sound was like stone grinding against stone, followed by an eruption of force that blasted outward in a wave of heat and grit.
Every goblin threw up their arms, faces buried behind forearms and weapons as shards of blood-mist and raw energy sprayed across the clearing.
When the haze thinned enough to see, silence fell.
Amon stood at the center of it all.
He was hunched low, his body coiled like a predator about to spring, steam rising in threads from his shoulders. A crimson aura swirled about him, clinging to his flesh like a second skin. His once-green body bore patches of living red, the skin mottled and slick, as if his very flesh had been rewritten. Every trace of his earlier wounds was gone; no burns, no blood, no weakness.
