The sky over Bloodfang was bruised purple by evening. The air still smelled faintly of scorched stone and burnt sigils, the scent of yesterday's magic that refused to fade. The fields behind the pack stretched far and open, the earth cracked in rings where Liora's power had split it again and again.
She stood alone in the center of that wasteland, her bare feet rooted into the soil, her eyes closed. The wind was restless tonight, as if unsure whether to flee or bow.
With each exhale, the ground pulsed.
A ripple of energy spread outward, bending the tall grass flat for miles. Her hands glowed faintly, each finger trailing threads of crimson light that danced like veins of living fire. The earth answered her movements. Rocks lifted. Air bent. Lightning cracked and twisted around her wrist, forming a serpent that slithered in midair, its eyes glowing white.
Liora's lips moved, whispering the words of the old tongue, words that even the gods had forgotten.
