The sky was quiet.
Utterly, unnervingly quiet.
Ash drifted in waves across the Cenotaph Wild Lands, blown from the shattered mountains and the molten battlefields where Ancient Ones had unleashed their fury.
Bones of Draconic Hybrids scattered down below as they…uniquely had remained utterly still.
It was not easily seen that from their destruction…spores moves with ash and wind.
The silence after the storm was so loud it threatened to collapse into another warcry.
And at the center of it all...
Achilles Adrastia Maxwell stood unburned, unwavering, as wind howled through the cracks of the broken land. He exhaled calmly.
A faint golden glow pulsed across his skin.
The umbrella like shield of his weapon slowly folded behind his back, petal by petal retracting like a quiet bloom- its core humming as if digesting everything
