Looking directly into Galen’s burning irises, Eliv managed to heal his vocal cords just enough to twitch his ruined lips, barely moving what was left of them.
"Y... you... you... a-are... going... to s-soon... fi... find... out... that the... stre...strength you have... is nothing... compared to foes you’ve never faced..." he rasped, each syllable raw, fragile, barely audible over the crackling remnants of the battlefield.
"N-no... ma...matter how strong... you think... you are... there will always... be someone... stronger..."
Galen stared at him for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. A small smirk crept across his lips as he rose from his crouch.
"Well," he said, rising to his full height again, voice calm and steady, "you’re right. Maybe there’s someone out there who could push me."
He extended his hand toward Eliv, a red-orange sigil pulsing to life in the center of his palm, glowing hotter with every breath.
"But you..." he continued, voice nearly bored, "you weren’t that someone. Neither were your hybrid friends. And if you think your pathetic green freak of a lord is going to change anything..."
He scoffed slightly. "Don’t worry. He’ll join you shortly after I leave. Then you two can sit in whatever pathetic afterlife exists for failures like you and talk about how badly you lost. Sounds good?"
Eliv barely had time to groan—his throat too torn to scream—as the sigil in Galen’s palm flared brilliantly.
A second later, the entire crater was swallowed in blinding orange-white light.
When the brilliance faded, there was nothing left where Eliv had been. No ash, no char,... and no body.
Only Galen, standing alone in the vast pit of ruin.
He slowly lowered his hand and returned it to the pocket of his coat. A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
"Well," he muttered, glancing at the charred wasteland around him, "that was a waste of time."
His fire-toned eyes scanned the decimated terrain for a moment, then he nodded once to himself.
A new sigil burst to life beneath his feet—large, intricate, and unlike any of the ones he’d used before. A wide circle etched with precise constructive markings glowed beneath him, with three long lines extending outward. At each line’s end rested a smaller circle, each holding a unique rune pulsing in sync with his myst.
The entire sigil spanned nearly four feet across, humming with potent energy. As Galen’s eyes glowed brighter, the spell circle reacted, its center igniting with a rush of flame.
Then, with a quiet rush and a sudden blast of heat, fire erupted upward and consumed him—light swallowing his form whole.
When the flames vanished, he was gone.
The only trace of his presence was the sigil’s final mark, scorched into the ruined earth like a brand left by a god.
With Morenelle crashing through her own concealment veil, the illusion over Sylvathar’s sanctuary shattered completely. Sunlight poured down through the broken dome, revealing what the sanctuary truly was—no vast temple of hidden beauty, no mythical landscape cloaked in secrets. Just a dense patch of forest nestled in the dead center of the desolate, scorched terrain known as the Land of Ruins.
A blemish of life in a sea of decay.
Morenelle’s body had been flung with terrifying force. She tore through several trees within the sanctuary, bark and leaves scattering like debris in a storm, before being launched beyond its borders entirely. Her body skidded across the arid wasteland, bouncing and rolling like a cursed stone across water, carving a jagged trench of destruction into the earth. Dirt, roots, and shattered stones followed in her wake until, finally, she came to a jarring stop.
Even with her immense resistance to magic—one of the highest among her kind—Aesmirius’s attack had touched her. Deeply. Enough to black her out for five full seconds.
Five seconds that could’ve ended her life.
Her emerald eyes snapped open with sudden fury, and without a moment’s hesitation, she launched herself upward—flipping mid-air before landing in a crouch a good distance from where she had just lain.
She landed with weight, her fingers digging into the soil, eyes instantly locking onto the figure standing a few paces from where her body had crashed.
He stood there as if he hadn’t moved at all, surrounded by the crackling hum of violet and gold lightning. His burning eyes—cold, unyielding—pierced straight through her.
Morenelle’s jaw tightened. Fury surged in her blood.
"Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance, huh?" she hissed, seething. "Was I not worth it?"
Aesmirius tilted his head slightly. For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then his left eye flickered—once violet... then glowing red.
"Like you said..." His voice echoed, layered—both Aesmirius’s ancient resonance and Liam’s tone melded into one. Sinister and mocking. "What makes you think I’d pass on the chance to watch you bleed?"
His lips curled into a crooked grin—twisted and manic.
It was Aesmirius in control, no question... but Liam’s consciousness had clawed its way back—partially. Somehow, Liam had pushed his awareness into half of his body, sharing control with the Primordial spirit now residing within him. And Aesmirius, amused by the boy’s sheer will, allowed it. For now.
Now Liam’s eyes burned in duality—right eye, flickering violet flame. Left, a glowing inferno of red.
That grin—the grin that bared both fury and euphoria—sent an involuntary chill crawling down Morenelle’s spine.
And for the first time in her hybrid existence... she felt fear.
But she did not fold.
Instead, she roared—an explosive burst of green and purple myst erupting from her body, howling with wind and pressure, sending nearby debris hurtling in all directions.
Her transformation began.
With a violent rip, her cloak shredded off her body. Her height surged, bones stretching, flesh reshaping. She grew to nearly eight feet tall, her once fair skin darkening into a deep, mossy green. Her flowing hair twisted into thick, living vines that danced with every pulse of her energy. Bark as hard as ancient oak encased her face like a helmet, leaving only her glowing emerald eyes exposed. Two massive horns burst from her skull, curling upward like a beast born of nature and wrath.
Her fingers elongated, tipped with vicious earthen claws. The same happened to her feet—grotesque, primal weapons of the forest.
And from her back, ten enormous, serpentine roots unfurled, writhing like living whips.
Even in this monstrous form—this terror of nature incarnate—Morenelle somehow retained the silhouette of a twisted model: tall, sharp, and eerily graceful.
But Liam—no, both Liam and Aesmirius—didn’t even blink.
They didn’t step back. They didn’t raise their hands.
They simply watched her. That same cold, violent calm behind their mismatched eyes.
And then, in her new guttural, feminine demon voice, Morenelle growled,
"You’re going to regret thinking that just because you got a little boost... you have a chance against me."
’Sensing how deeply you want her... she is yours, child,’ Aesmirius murmured in Liam’s mind, his voice a silken thread woven with fire, hunger, and approval.