The Naga Matriarch rose from the centre of the western swarm like a nightmare that had taken the time to dress for the occasion, tattered ceremonial silk dragging across the obsidian tile behind her, the staff in her clawed grip pulsing violet once, twice, and then the floor beneath the horde began to shimmer with the specific light that meant something was about to get significantly worse.
Out of thin air, the elite Nagas began to materialise, larger and faster and wreathed in purple that made the air smell like copper and old magic, their fangs already trailing venom, their tails thick as tree trunks coiling beneath them with a patience that had nothing reassuring in it.
