The silence that settled over the Arena of Tides was heavy, pressing down on the spectators like the ocean depth itself. The carcass of the Magma-Shell Behemoth, flipped and gutted by Valeria, lay as a smoking testament to the strength of the Void Sanctum. The Draconic Legion, previously disciplined and arrogant, shifted uneasily. Their siege breaker had been humiliated.
On the Obsidian Throne, Dragon King Apollyon did not rage. He did not scream. He simply tapped a clawed finger against the armrest of his floating chair. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack echoed louder than the murmurs of the crowd.
"Disappointing," Apollyon said. His voice was smooth, a low baritone that vibrated in the chests of everyone present. "Size and strength are easily countered by leverage. We require precision."
He gestured with a single finger. From the ranks of the Legion, a shadow detached itself.
