Ash rose to the sky.
The roof of the tower burned, the explosion illuminating the area around, heat melting the snow on its surface.
"Cough... Cough."
At the edge of the tower, Azariah stood, coughing, a mana shield clutched in his forearm, extended to protect his body.
His instinct saved him from the point-blank explosion, but damage was still done.
The sleeves of his shirt were burned, showing his hands—lined with layers of thin old scars.
They covered his skin as if some beast had repeatedly raked its claws up and down, again and again.
Pain surged through his scars, but it was just his imagination.
"Arghh..."
He groaned, eyes snapping open, looking at the fire burning around him.
"Arianell!!!"
He yelled, running, crossing his arms to pass through the fiery pit to the other side.
Muspelh.
Heat slowly subsided, giving way for him to move.
