Smoke clung to his teeth when he inhaled again.
But it was cold.
And getting colder.
He stepped off the last terrace stair and into the shadow of the burning field. Except it wasn't burning. It shimmered. A thousand flame-husks crawled the ridgeline, dragging chainmail feet through vitrified sand that still hissed with stolen heat.
Yorrik's disciples waited for him—eleven now, the twelfth still twitching on the upper tier with his lungs full of steam.
They formed a crescent, hands lifted. No words spoken. Their palms pulsed gold, runes lighting along the veins, fire licking up the forearms like they were born to it.
Yorrik raised his own hand. A slow motion.
The frontline advanced.
And lit the world.
Pillars of flame shot forward—pure solar ignition, condensed into sweeping arcs. The kind of fire that cracked bone through armor. That peeled back cursed hide. That turned plague to smoke and void to ash.
Every strike hit.
But Brakar walked through it.
