The core writhed like a living thing, its cracks bleeding rivers of black fire that sizzled against Aria's skin. Each pulse was a hammer-blow against her soul, trying to tear her apart from within. She forced herself onward, boots grinding against shattered stone, every muscle trembling with the strain of keeping her grip.
The Warden shrieked without sound, its whole colossal frame convulsing as if its very bones were being ripped apart from their bindings. The chains anchoring it to the ruins went wild, stabbing through pillars, floors, even the air itself in a desperate attempt to anchor the collapsing form. The entire hall lurched, as though the Ruins of Vakrops themselves were trying to tear her away from the core.
But Aria did not relent. She drew upon the deathfire coursing through her veins, allowing it to burn hotter, darker. Her sword became a black sun, each inch driven deeper into the core blazing with annihilation.
"Fall," she hissed through clenched teeth.
