The runes surrounding Elyssar's body shattered like broken glass under invisible pressure. Each one burst with a sharp, dry sound, until the last one cracked like a bell breaking in half. Then came the sound: a deep creak, like ancient bones realigning themselves, like old wood twisting in a gale.
Her body grew. Not grotesquely, but with brutal elegance. Her single horn glowed pure gold, so intense that the sky above brightened for an instant—and then darkened with the weight of the power released. Her golden skin took on a warmer, more vivid tone, as if every cell were made of condensed sunlight. The clothes, or living armor, that enveloped her adapted fluidly, growing with her, taking on more rigid and imposing forms, reminiscent of the battle attire worn by the ancient draconic lords of lost ages.
