A rumble shivered through the ground—the tremor of something colossal approaching. Vaelira's ears rang as the vibration climbed her bones. A shadow parted the smoke. The crimson-plated warrior arrived, each step a concussive thoom that kicked dust into spirals. His armor was lacquered with runes glowing brick-red, lines jagged like split veins. The greatsword he bore was almost as tall as Vaelira, edges serrated with obsidian teeth that dripped oily luminance.
Draven slid one foot back, blades crossing before him in an X. Vaelira felt the air tighten, the earth hold its breath.
"Who are you," the giant demanded, voice rumbling like stones grinding in a kiln, "to slaughter my kin?"
Before Draven could shape an answer, a wounded soldier somewhere behind the warrior screamed: "Answer him, Drakhan!"
