The ground ruptured beneath Leon's boots.
A pulse surged outward from the figure's raised hands. It wasn't fire, not fully—it was the weight of something ancient waking, like a mountain exhaling after centuries. The air grew hotter. Not burning. Suffocating. Every breath they took felt thinner, heavier.
Leon didn't wait anymore.
He charged.
The figure didn't flinch. He stepped forward to meet the blade, barehanded. Leon swung with all the force the Oathfire granted—but the strike stopped mid-air. Not blocked. Caught.
Fingers wrapped around his sword.
Leon gritted his teeth. He twisted, kicked, drove his elbow toward the figure's neck.
Nothing worked.
The figure pushed him back with a shove that threw Leon across the chamber.
Elena shouted, running forward, but the ground split between them. Lava-light glowed from the cracks. Not molten rock. Not real lava. The floor moved.
Runes peeled up like they were alive.
