The enemy army arrived brimming with confidence and valor, their armor shining in the sun, crests stitched proudly into their cloaks—each man a walking emblem of their city's honor. They marched forward, blades drawn and spells primed, ready to strike.
But within moments, they vanished.
With a single wave of Zaruki's hand, the roughly three thousand men were swallowed from the field just meters away from the front fence of the village—gone, like dust in the wind.
The few remaining representatives—envoys, commanders, stragglers—crumpled to the ground in shock. All they could do was gape at the figure above them, silhouetted against the sky, his massive draconic wings unfurled in silent majesty.
Zaruki didn't need to say a word. His presence was a message louder than thunder.
They ran.
Scrambling into the forest like panicked prey, they fled back to their cities without rest. Not because they'd been spared out of mercy—but because they had been chosen as messengers.
