The skies above the ruined Obsidian Conclave turned a furious crimson, churning with mana storms as reality trembled under the pressure of unleashed power. The battle had ended, but the world would never be the same.
Valerian stood atop the shattered spire, cloaked in blood and arcane residue. His left gauntlet, once silver, now pulsed with molten red glyphs—runic burns left by the spell he should never have cast. The Forbidden Manifestation of Primordial Wrath. Each glyph told a story of sacrificed souls, of power stolen from the very fabric of existence.
Umbra coiled around him in an almost protective aura, whispering in low tongues only he could hear. The shadow entity had grown stronger, more corporeal since the ritual. Its whispers carried the weight of ancient prophecies and forgotten truths.
