Marcus moved, planting one foot forward with deliberate precision as he hurled the sphere at Laurent. His motion was smooth—fluid—like a seasoned pitcher on the mound, arm slicing through the air with honed grace.
"Blightful Cinders!" he shouted, his voice resonating like a war cry. The runic sphere tore through the space between them, the grass beneath it splitting and curling away as if scorched by pure pressure alone. The energy howled as it flew—an ominous blend of necrotic decay and raw, combustive heat wrapped in glowing threads of volatile magic.
Laurent's smirk deepened, and with a single, fluid motion, he spread both arms wide, the barrier blooming outward like a crystalline flower, thickening in both density and hue.
"I guess you were right…"
His voice, though calm, held a flicker of something sharper now: anticipation.
