A few seconds later, the ethereal cloud mass was already at Havocspire's doorstep. The icy gust accompanying it had already snuffed out the last embers rising from the citadel's ruins. A thick sheet of frost was racing across the ramparts, threatening to encase the entire city and its new inhabitants in ice.
If Chillmire reached its target, barring perhaps Featherfall and the five figures atop it, every living being within a thirty-kilometer radius of Havocspire Citadel would be frozen solid. The Radiant Conclave, having already shifted several of its garrisons to bolster their stance, would be facing an inconceivably catastrophic defeat.
"It's about to begin..." Meribelle murmured, her expression grim. "Once Featherfall and the Radiant Conclave members on its back are out of the way, it will be Bones' turn to handle the Dreadnought Nematode."
