Lord Grak-thul's voice, amplified by the crimson runes on his wolf-helm, hung in the unnaturally silent plaza.
"I... hate it."
He leaned forward, his magma-orange eyes blazing with a sudden, violent, and personal hatred. "It clashes with my entire aesthetic. Which is, as you can see... fire and screaming."
Before the echo of his words died, he moved.
It was not the clumsy, lumbering charge of the Brutes. It was a terrifying, fluid lunge. He raised his massive, two-handed axe—a weapon that should have been impossibly heavy, impossibly slow—and brought it down in a whistling, vertical arc.
Not at Kellan.
He struck Elara's silver wall.
The crimson runes on the axe-head ignited, blazing with a light-devouring, anti-magic energy. The axe was not aimed at a single point; it was aimed at the concept of the barrier.
KR-THOOOM!
The impact was not a clang. It was a gong, a deep, soul-shaking, dimensional thud.
