From the final stroke, the wind screamed—and reality cracked open.
The aether-glyphs Lucas had traced into the air shuddered with sudden brilliance. A swirling vortex of green light erupted from the sigils, spiraling upward like a rising gale.
The arena's sounds dulled beneath the force of summoned wind—not with overwhelming volume, but with presence.
Dust and flame bent inward toward Lucas, not torn by power, but pulled by recognition—as though even the elements paused to see what would emerge.
A single crack split the space before him. Then another. Veins of emerald light spidered outward through the air like lightning frozen in time, sharp and deliberate.
Then it burst—not violently, but with intention.
A rush of emerald brilliance spilled forth, coalescing into form with a sound like rushing wind and whispered prophecy.
Then the light pulsed.
A shape began to form, emerging from the center of the swirling aether.
