The old man's fingers shifted.
Not with intent.
Not with haste.
Just a slight movement—idle, almost bored.
The skull in his right hand began to turn.
At first, nothing changed.
Then the runes carved into its surface flickered.
One line lit.
Then another.
Violet light crept along the grooves like liquid fire seeping through cracks, slow and deliberate. The glow thickened, deepened, until it no longer looked like light at all—but something heavier, denser, dragging the air around it inward.
The space near his hand bent.
Not visibly at first—just enough that the edges of the skull seemed slightly wrong, stretched thin, then pulled back into place. The air shuddered. Breathing became difficult, as if lungs were pressing against something solid.
Below—
The battlefield faltered.
