The air screamed before anyone did.
Not a metaphor. Not poetic license. The sound was sharp and wrong, like the sky itself had torn a seam and couldn't decide whether to bleed lightning or fire. Magic, raw, ugly, overfed magic, crashed down in a coordinated wave, five signatures braided into one lethal intent. The ground beneath the great northern tree shuddered. Sacred moss, old, resilient, said to remember every footstep since the first duke, split open with a noise like bone cracking.
Elric didn't flinch.
He stood there, boots braced, one hand forward, the other clenched tight as if he were gripping something invisible and precious. His shield flared cobalt, thick and faceted, not pretty but brutally efficient. The first volley struck it head-on. Light bloomed. The impact rattled his bones anyway, sent a sharp ache up his arms and into his jaw.
Five.
He counted them even as the second wave came.
