A billowing cloud of radiant, golden ash erupted from the dragon's maw, rapidly flooding the cathedral with shimmering motes of light. It carried no thermal heat. It possessed no kinetic force. It was purely psychic. It bypassed armor, mana shields, and physical barriers, sinking directly into the minds of every living soul in the room.
It forcefully subjected them to the annihilation of Drak'thar.
Nathan was violently ripped into Vorlagrath's perspective. He felt the blinding terror of the Towers erupting from the earth. He felt the cold, indifferent gaze of the Shepherd. He watched the Demi-Beasts—proud, beautiful warriors—slaughtered by the tens of thousands, their bodies crumbling into grey ash. He watched the dragons fall in flames. The sheer, concentrated grief of a king watching his world end over centuries was compressed into a single, mind-shattering second. It was the agonizing weight of surviving when everyone you loved had died.
