The storm over the capital was no longer a force of nature. It roared with raw mana, its clouds twisting into unnatural shapes—dragons, serpents, and writhing shadows that seemed to claw at the heavens. Lightning struck in jagged, impossible patterns, each bolt carving black scars into the city's ancient stonework. The air itself pulsed with malevolent energy, as if the world were screaming in protest.
Valerian stood at the shattered archway of the Obsidian Conclave's Core chamber, his boots grinding fragments of blackened obsidian to dust. The air reeked of charred runes and molten metal, the acrid stench clawing at his lungs. His cloak, tattered from the battle to reach this point, snapped in the unnatural wind that howled through the broken chamber. His eyes, glowing faintly gold, scanned the devastation before him.
