The Archmage moved first, a massive wooden wand materializing in his hand with a shimmer of gold light.
For such a kind-looking old man, he sure didn't waste time on pleasantries.
With a swift, practiced sweep of his wand, a ring of runes ignited behind him—each one flaring to life in a blaze of elemental color: fiery crimson, icy blue, crackling violet, and more. They hung in the air like celestial sigils, spinning slowly, pulsing with contained power.
The air warped under their pressure—heat shimmered, frost slithered across the stone, and static snapped at the ends of the Archmage's beard. The runes beat in steady rhythm, like the breath of something ancient and divine drawn into waking.
"Arrogant child," he muttered, almost amused.
