The remains of Cycle of Ash and Bloom still crackled in the air, threads of flame lingering in circular patterns, searing the skies with crimson arcs, the battlefield had been utterly transformed, a wasteland of melted stone, scorched earth, and vaporized frost, neither fire nor ice held dominance now, the world itself seemed to reel from the magnitude of their conflict.
Zerypha, her veil stained with streaks of golden blood, wavered as she fought to stay upright, the protective crystalline sphere she had conjured flickered, fractured in places, its once-pristine surface webbed with fissures, her pale hand trembled against the shaft of her draconic staff, and her breath came in ragged draws.
Draven wasn't faring much better; his armor was in tatters, smoke could be seen rising from open wounds, crimson blood running in rivulets down his scorched skin, his sword, still gripped tight, wavered for a moment before he steadied it, his gaze was locked onto Zerypha.
