A sickening hiss of burning marrow echoed through the upper sky.
Trapped within the sixty-four bronze gravity bands, Warden-Elder Moros felt his mind slipping into total, unhinged madness.
His fleet was gone.
His Vice-Elders were incapacitated.
His five-thousand-year-old island array was obeying a boy in a faded bathrobe.
“I will not die like a dog in a cage!” Moros shrieked, his voice tearing his vocal cords.
With a monstrous, suicidal convulsion, Moros detonated half of his Saint blood-essence.
Black necrotic fire erupted from his pores, incinerating four hundred years of accumulated vitality in a single heartbeat.
