But the power radiating from him was unmistakable. Reality itself seemed to bend around him, space compressing and expanding with each step.
The air grew heavier, pressure building like an approaching storm.
Draelusa stopped perhaps fifty feet away, well within conversational distance but far enough to avoid immediate melee range. His eyes, those ancient, knowing eyes, fixed on Jaenor with an expression that mixed amusement and satisfaction.
"Jaenor Arkwright," he said, his cultured voice carrying easily across the burned ground.
"How delightful that you accepted my invitation."
Drealusa was sure that Jaenor would come knocking down if he knew that Frostvale was under attack, and so he led an army by himself.
"Invitation?" Jaenor's merged power was already gathering beneath his skin, gold and crimson light beginning to flicker.
"You're invading toward Frostvale. That's not an invitation; it's an attack."
"Is it?" Draelusa smiled.
