He lifted his paws. Runes ignited around them, ancient sigils tracing the air as his claws—no, fingers, impossibly precise—moved as if plucking invisible strings, tugging at currents no human mage could see.
The air shuddered. Nothing happened.
Chubby froze. "What on earth?"
His ears flattened. "…No," he whispered. "It's being controlled. Dark magic. Forbidden. Familiar—" He shook his head violently, like he was trying to dislodge the thought itself.
"Impossible." Another tentacle came down. This one crushed an entire mangrove grove flat, water surging inland in a violent wave. Knights were thrown like toys. Horses broke formation, rearing and screaming, eyes white with terror.
Orders were shouted. Formations collapsed. Mana guns were abandoned in favor of swords—steel against flesh—desperate, bloody, intimate combat.
