Her legs shook. Her spine bent.
A ragged, agonizing scream of sheer, hopeless torment tore from her throat… a sound that seemed so unlike the proud, untouchable image of the Warchief into pieces.
She was losing.
Against an enemy of flesh, Veylara would fight until her last drop of blood.
But how could mortal marrow hold off the cold, unfeeling weight of an entire world's laws pressing down on a single point? Her core was on the verge of shattering inward, and her skin began to crack, tiny fissures of light bleeding from her shoulders as the descending doom prepared to flatten her into a hollow smear of ash beneath the indifferent wrath of cosmic rule.
Seeing her break, something raw, feral, and utterly vicious snapped inside Sol's chest.
A red-hot fury surged through his veins, hotter than the fires, hotter than the essence burning in his sun core.
Failing? Erased by a rule?
Fuck that. Fuck the realm, and fuck the sky.
