High above the fractured ruins, where the wind stirred dust like whispered omens and sunlight fractured through cracks in the sky, the tension between Aesmirius and Sylvathar thickened. Their opposing auras bled into the heavens, churning space itself, light and shadow curdling together in a storm that stretched over the broken land like a god's breath held still.
Aesmirius moved first.
He didn't launch—he glided forward with a grace that defied weight or effort, his violet aura rippling like oil across water. One hand swept outward, fingers languidly twisting through the air, and the very fabric of space responded. Veins of ancient myst spiraled forth, blooming into jagged black tendrils that reached for Sylvathar with serpentine hunger.
