The air trembled.
It began with a low hum, like a distant drum under the soil, then split into a roar. From the hollow where the alders grew, a white flash erupted—light that wasn't sunlight, bursting upward in a single violent bloom. The ground bucked under them. Sand and grass peeled away. Aros threw an arm in front of Gemma, shouting for the line to fall back, but the sound was already gone, devoured by the shockwave.
The explosion of light didn't fade—it fractured. Beams shot outward in thin, needle-sharp streams, crisscrossing the slope, striking the menhirs, the ground, the air itself. Wherever they hit, the air seemed to twist and shimmer like heat on iron. One of the soldiers screamed as a ray tore through his shield, splitting it like parchment.
"Fall back!" Talon roared.
The formation broke. Dust rose in clouds. The smell of iron and ozone clung to everything. Through the haze, Gemma saw Jori stumble sideways, hands clutching his head. He ran—not away from the light, but toward the dark side of the hill.
"Jori!" Gemma shouted, chasing him.
He didn't answer. His small frame darted through the brush, quick and sure, as if he knew exactly where to go. Gemma's boots slipped in the loose earth; branches clawed her arms as she pushed after him. "Stop! You'll get yourself killed!"