Cain wasn't the type to posture for its own sake or to make life harder for those weaker than him. But sometimes clarity demanded spectacle. A single, undeniable demonstration prevented the kind of dithering—tests, delays, petty provocations—that turned diplomacy into a slow death by a thousand cuts.
So he let his power breathe.
For several long heartbeats, the air around him thickened into a pressure that could have crushed mountains. The sky shivered. The blood tornado at Borealis' heart heaved as if a giant hand had stirred it. Red light gathered in Cain's eyes—cold, sovereign, unblinking—and the world seemed to understand what stood before it.
Then he drew it all back.
