The air itself seemed to fracture as Cyrus's transformation completed.
Kane had seen glimpses before—wings in battle, scales beneath skin—but nothing prepared him for this.
Forty feet of obsidian death uncoiled where Cyrus had stood, muscles rippling beneath armor-black scales.
Massive wings spread wide enough to shadow half the pier, each membrane veined with crimson that pulsed like molten metal.
His head alone dwarfed the water dragon, crowned with swept-back horns and eyes like twin suns burning in the darkness.
But it wasn't just Cyrus's size that stole Kane's breath—it was the way reality bent around him.
The dragon's aura erupted outward like a storm front, invisible pressure waves that made Kane's teeth ache and his fox ears ring.
Streetlights flickered and dimmed, their glow becoming sickly and uncertain.
The sounds of the bay—lapping water, distant traffic, night birds—muffled as if someone had wrapped the entire pier in thick wool.
