The deployment of the formation was swift. Under the oppressive heat, Rhys, Yuki, and the Wanderers rode their Dune-Skimmers to the calculated point of convergence.
The silence of the desert was eerie; had it not been for the rhythmic hiss of the Dune-Skimmers gliding over the endless white sand, one might have thought oneself deaf.
The sky was pale, already poised to accept the arrival of the Tyrant.
Rhys rode at the head of the procession. The 'Chains of Temporal Stasis', his month-long masterpiece, rested within his spatial pouch, waiting to unleash its immense power upon the world.
He felt the wild, chaotic energy of the Tempest Djinn core thrumming within his specialised dantian, a familiar storm now tamed to his will.
He was an Artisan, a weaver of wind and runes, and he had never felt more ready.
