Under a cracked sky, and with the ground trembling under the weight of creeping ruin, annihilation crept into the arena like an irreversible decree.
The screams, the flames, and the wings of the Arkanis flapping in the air—all were the backdrop to a conflict that had begun to take the shape of a madness-written epic, not one of heroism.
Valerian planted his feet. His right hand extended, drawing a curved dagger, dark in metal, as if its shadow preceded its blade. The other hand followed with a second dagger, smaller, but darker—so dark that light itself refused to cling to it.
He breathed deeply, and it seemed his body was unbinding from itself. His hesitation vanished. The weakness vanished. What remained of his consciousness screamed a single command: fight to confirm you exist.
He moved.
