The dust had settled, but the battle was far from over.
Elius stood with heavy breath, muscles aching, eyes sharp.
The pressure in the air was suffocating now, a warping heat mingled with the stench of scorched sand and cracked stone.
All around them, the battleground resembled a shattered sculpture of the world itself, devastated by the previous barrage.
And yet…
Clint's knees buckled. He dropped to one hand, panting so heavily that every breath rasped like wind through fire-scorched lungs.
"Damn it…" Clint muttered, voice barely audible. "I'm… running dry…"
The tubes attached to his wrists glowed faintly, flickering in and out like dying embers. His fire bullet chambers were overheating.
The recoil had bruised his bones. His once fiery aura had diminished to faint waves of heat radiating around his body like a fading halo.
Balkan wasn't doing any better.
He knelt beside a still-smoking crater, his entire right arm trembling from overuse of the summoning glyphs.
