Xerollion lowered his hand.
It was not a sudden movement. There was no dramatic flourish, no theatrical dismissal.
Instead, it was a slow, agonizing descent, each inch of movement measured with terrifying deliberation. The violet-black energy that had been coiled like a starving predator at his fingertips began to withdraw.
It didn't simply vanish; it imploded, shrinking inward on itself in concentric circles of dying light, pulsing weaker and weaker like the final, desperate throbs of a failing heart.
Flicker... dim... flicker...
SHHHHHHHH...
The energy died with a sound like a dying breath, leaving behind only the acrid, metallic tang of ionized air and the faint smell of burnt magic hanging in the stagnant atmosphere.
The silence that followed was not empty; it was heavy, physical, and suffocating. It pressed down on the shoulders of every soldier, every mage, and every broken soul in the corridor.
