The battlefield burned.
Crimson fire swirled like a living beast, devouring steel and bone. The corpses of elite knights littered the charred earth, smoke rising from their shattered armor like prayers to forgotten gods. The acrid stench of melted metal and burned flesh hung in the air, a funeral pyre for the kingdom's finest. Valerian stood at the center of the carnage, cloaked in obsidian lightning that crackled and writhed around his form like serpents of pure darkness. His arm remained outstretched, fingers still sparking with residual energy. His breathing was steady—unnaturally so, as if the slaughter had been nothing more than a morning exercise.
Umbra floated above his shoulder like a dark halo, pulsing with forbidden energy that seemed to drink in the very light around it. The artifact's malevolent whispers had grown silent, sated by the feast of destruction.
