The Natine King, witnessing the swath of destruction carved by Mordain, felt a surge of fury unlike any he had known. His soldiers, his people, were falling before this harbinger of death, and a primal rage took hold—a king's wrath for his kingdom's plight.
The Naline King, perched upon his war steed, saw the shift in his adversary's eyes and knew his secret weapon had struck true fear into the heart of Natine. With a cold, calculated smile, he launched himself at the Natine King, unleashing the full might of his cultivated power. A maelstrom of energy erupted from his hands, a storm aimed to obliterate.
But the Natine King stood unyielding, his form a bastion amidst the tempest. The assault that would have razed mountains to dust, that would have turned rivers to steam, seemed to wash over him like a gentle breeze. He was a monolith of resolve, and the Naline King's fury did not so much as singe his royal cloak.
