As the clash between Serah and the Pureblood raged on, Marcus remained unmoved, lounging atop the high branch as though the chaos beneath him was nothing more than a street performance put on for his amusement. His arms were folded lazily behind his head, body stretched across the sturdy wood, looking for all the world like he had drifted into a half-slumber.
The battlefield itself was a ruin of shattered trunks, gouged earth, and smoldering ash where flame and blood clashed violently—but the tree Marcus chose to perch upon stood untouched, untouched as though shielded by fate or by Marcus's sheer will to have his peace. The violence was a storm, but to him it was no more than background noise, a distant hum against the lull of his chosen perch.
