The air in the Inner Sanctum tasted of ozone, blood, and the biting ash of a blizzard that refused to die. Alvian wiped a smear of blood from his lip, his eyes locked onto the two remaining pylons humming with violet energy. His health bar hovered in the yellow, a dangerous threshold for a glass cannon build, but his mind was a glacier—cold, unmoving, and utterly focused.
"Phase Two," Alvian repeated, his voice a low growl that cut through the shrieking wind.
Malagor, the SnowMage Lord, floated above the dais, his form flickering as the backlash from the destroyed pylons destabilized his invulnerability matrix. His face, a mask of frozen arrogance, twisted into pure, unadulterated rage.
"Insolence! You think breaking my toys will save you?" Malagor roared, raising his staff. The skull atop it screamed, spewing a cloud of necrotic frost. "I am the herald of the End! I am the Winter that never yields!"
[Boss Skill Activated: [Winter's Grasp]]
