The desert was breaking.
What had begun as a wide expanse of golden dunes now looked like a war-scarred battlefield. Ridges had been carved into trenches by Adrian's axe swings, craters gouged deep by Nathan's lightning-charged dashes, frozen plains stretched from Seraphina's relentless ice, and rivers of steam marked where Ethan's fire clashed against Merlin's storms.
At the center of it all, Merlin still stood.
Golden arcs danced lazily across his body, as if power bled from him without command. His chest rose steady, his eyes sharp, his blade steady. The weight of his presence pressed harder and harder with every heartbeat.
And yet—
Seven figures still stood against him.
Nathan, breathing ragged, daggers sparking in his fists.
Elara, silver hair damp with sweat, violet blades ready.
Adrian, shoulders heaving, axe dragging a trench behind him.
Seraphina, frost mist curling at her ankles.
Dorian, crouched and coiled, crimson eyes focused.
