The battlefield did not pause to mourn.
The mage tightened his grip around his staff.
He spoke in goblin speech. A vow that tasted like iron and ash.
The staff answered.
The ground shuddered once.
Then every drop of blood spilled from the fallen goblin kings trembled, rose, and streamed toward the staff as if gravity had reversed.
It flowed like ownership being reclaimed.
The blood struck the artifact and vanished inside it.
The air turned wrong.
Chaos thickened into a visible haze as if reality had become a poorly mixed paint.
Lucien felt the effect immediately.
Edges lost certainty. Distance gained lies. Cause and effect loosened.
The goblin mage's shoulders hunched as the stolen essence flooded him. Miasma flared like a cloak catching fire. His scars lit in spiraling patterns and his eyes clouded over with a churning, feverish madness.
He looked up and smiled at Lucien.
