The battlefield was a graveyard of chaos.
Smoke curled into the storm-torn sky as fire devoured the wounded land. Craters from magic blasts still steamed, and blood soaked the cracked stones where once there had been streets, homes… peace.
Bodies—soldiers, beasts, mages—lay motionless under the roiling clouds.
At the center of it all, veiled in a shimmering obsidian sphere, Ivanka floated, her long black hair whipping around her like tendrils of night.
Her eyes were closed. Her arms were raised. And around her—souls screamed as the barrier harvested the death surrounding her like a black sun devouring light.
She was drawing in the dead. Feeding off pain. And growing stronger.
Aamir stood at the front, muscles tensed, his breath shallow. His blade rested at his side, twitching with barely restrained energy. He stared at the barrier—still intact, save for one thin, glowing crack, flickering like lightning across glass.
Every second lost meant another comrade dead.
