Quinn Slatemark lifted his palm toward the ceiling, and the world responded.
Mana surged from his body in a great tide, saturating the air like the onset of a storm. His Gift activated instantly—Mage's Flow—and with it came the cloak. Not a literal cloak, no. It was the kind of supernatural mantle that shimmered behind his back like a second spine made of starlight and arcane will.
To anyone watching, it would look elegant. To anyone else of Radiant-rank or below, it was a message.
He wasn't in the mood to negotiate.
'They dare,' Quinn thought, his expression set in granite, 'to attack the Empire with insects and sermons.'
The first spell was almost lazy, a flick of the wrist. And yet the air screamed as the mana lanced out. Priests and Bishops evaporated mid-chant, vanishing in puffs of red mist and shredded scripture. Only the Cardinals held—barely—raising layers of defensive spells and blessings just in time.
They had three seconds.
