The sound of battle shook the horizon.
Fogwalkers screamed as they fell, torn apart by blades, curses, and shadowfire. The Fifteen moved like a single entity—each attack folding into the next like a symphony of destruction. Bodies twisted. Space cracked. Magic warped.
And below it all—
Heron and Balgron clashed again.
The Draugr's grin was wider now, blood on his knuckles and joy in his dead eyes. Balgron, once a towering beast of the old world, was losing ground. His breath was ragged, one of his tusks cracked, his skin ripped and sagging with every blow.
Balgron growled, summoning blood spikes from his shoulders, hurling them like missiles.
Heron didn't dodge.
He stepped through them.
Literally.
His body shimmered, semi-transparent, moving through the barrage like fog through wind.
Then he reappeared—right in front of Balgron.
One palm glowed black with concentrated void mana. The other clenched into a hammering fist.
Crack!
Another blow to Balgron's ribs—bone broke.
