The black flames spread across the ruined forest like a living plague.
The ground hissed and cracked beneath their heat while the surrounding trees continued collapsing into blackened ash. Even the air itself felt wrong to breathe. The dead mana saturating the area pressed heavily against the lungs of everyone present, suffocating weaker dark elves to the point that some had already dropped to one knee.
Yet amidst that hellish landscape, Zale walked forward calmly.
The pale glow of Serathil illuminated the darkness around him, the sacred weapon moving fluidly beside him like a silver serpent gliding through water. Its segmented blade shifted softly with each movement, scales interlocking and separating with quiet metallic hymns.
The moment Jabran's eyes landed upon the weapon, the flames around him surged violently.
"Hm," Zale mused lightly, noticing the reaction. "So you do recognize holy weapons."
