Moros threw his head back, barking a harsh, jagged laugh into the wind.
“Fallow Slate?” Moros mocked, his claws trembling with unhinged rage. “You babble like a lunatic in a village teahouse! Die in your pathetic delusions!”
The Warden-Elder brought his hands together, commanding the final firing sequence.
Across the five miles of sky, the twenty-four cables of blood-red starlight flared with blinding intensity.
The atmospheric pressure dropped so fast that the seawater beneath the allied fleet turned into a boiling, frothing cauldron.
On the flagship’s quarterdeck, Deacon Vane clutched his ledger to his chest, his knuckles white with dread.
“Allied defensive shields are at maximum output!” Linnea shouted above the rising shriek of the air. “Containment fields will collapse in four seconds!”
Elder Sterling planted his boots wide, raising his broadsword toward the burning clouds.
