The field was about to collapse.
Sparks of raw energy crackled in the air like shards of reality ready to cut anyone who dared to breathe deeply. Ice and fire dueled beneath the feet of those present, forming a fragile boundary between eras, between worlds—between ancient vendettas and new disasters.
But at the center of the storm, two figures remained steadfast.
Nivara, Empress of Ice, stood erect like an ancient spear, her eyes still without pupils, but filled with an opaque, piercing light, like crystals under pressure.
Crimsarya, Scarlet Empress, the flames of her hair dancing with calculated slowness, as if mocking the glacial stillness that surrounded her.
Both watched each other. Neither moved.
Until Nivara spoke—her voice cold as the shore of an eternal lake.
"You brought gods, Crimsarya?" Contempt dripped from every syllable, like ice melting and refreezing. "How disgusting. I expected more from you."
Crimsarya did not look away. She did not take a single step.
