Trapped in a body that was a prison, fighting in a realm that hated him slightly less than it hated his opponent, and facing a weapon that was his absolute antithesis. Chaos's attacks were wild, world-ending, and inefficient. Rowan's were precise, absolute, and fatal.
Rowan ran along the spine of a mountain range that was trying to crush him. He dodged a rain of stars that burned with the heat of betrayal. He weaved through a forest of grasping limbs that sang songs of madness. He was a paradox himself: the epicenter of a storm of annihilation, yet the calmest, most focused point in the cosmos.
He found a weak point—a vast, pulsing organ that seemed to be regulating the Primordial's desperate hold on its newly ordered form. It was a heart of chaos, trying to beat in a rhythm. A profound vulnerability.
Rowan did not hesitate as he raised Anathema for a final, decisive thrust, disregarding the shriek of disbelief from the Primordial.
