The battlefield felt colder.
Not from wind, nor from the lingering Voidborn ash drifting in fragile spirals through the wounded air—but from the quiet, murderous certainty in K's eyes as the ground beneath Khael began to splinter in jagged fractures.
An invisible pressure pulled downward, a black gravity well forming under Khael's feet.
His draconic heels sank a few inches into the ground before his wings flared, instinctually counteracting the pull. The violet shimmer of the Dragonion Form rippled violently across his scales.
He could withstand it. But barely.
K stood calmly atop the ruined slope, dust drifting from his coat as if the world dared not cling to him.
That cruel smirk returned measured, calculating.
"I warned you, Khael Corzedar. Power born from sentiment decays under pressure."
The black gravity swirled tighter, a spiraling maw beneath Khael's feet.
The Dragon Knight gritted his teeth behind the obsidian mask.
