The forest burned with sound.
Branches split and shrapnelled under pressure as airwaves cracked through the Verdant Verge.
Magic essence whined in the air — every ounce of it twisted, heavy, unstable. Two forces crashed together in bursts of blinding essence.
Damien barely saw the first strike. One moment, General Ivaan was a silhouette behind the haze of runes and glowing blood sigils, and the next, the man's fist crashed through the air like a cannon shot. Damien's arm went up in reflex — metal met flesh, essence met essence.
Booooom!
The shockwave vaporized the nearest trees.
Damien skidded backward, boots carving lines in the dirt, his breath fogging white from the backlash. Fenrir, crouched low beside him, growled, the shadows around its fangs rippling with condensed killing intent.
Aquila's cry split through the storm as it dove from above, slicing through Ivaan's mana barrier with bladed winds.
But Ivaan caught the griffin by the throat mid-dive.
