The glade, caught between the celestial currents and the unseen cosmic forces, became a stage for the next act in the cosmic drama. As the Weavers stood firm, Dhazam's voice lingered in the air like a haunting melody, a reminder of the intricate dance between choice and destiny.
Victor, his hand on Kaldor, felt the sword resonate with the cosmic energies. The weapon, once a mere artifact, now pulsed with a life of its own, attuned to the cosmic rhythms. His gaze swept the glade, searching for any ripple in the air that might betray Dhazam's presence.
Lyra, her celestial fire burning brighter, stepped forward. Her eyes, now orbs of cosmic flame, reflected a determination that transcended mortal boundaries. "Dhazam may weave illusions, but our purpose remains clear. We are Weavers of our fate, not marionettes in his cosmic play."
