"What are we seeing…?" one of the werebears whispered, his voice trembling with primal fear. "A god had descended…?"
"WORRY ABOUT THE RIFT, NOT THE WATER! FREEZE IT! NOW!" Damon's scream jolted them back into action, and they moved.
Their ice magic flared, slamming into the dormant rift and sealing it in a plug of frozen magic that would hold. For now. At least for long enough.
"Damon Iondora, I am about to hand you a private contact to my elder. You listen carefully and beg him in my place to come to this place to help right now." Oathran hissed into the comms.
He knew Cecilia was at risk. He knew he was out of options and reaching for the nuclear button. Perhaps this was the only way.
"Set up a private channel between me and the White Mist now! Quick!" Damon yelled across the control room.
"Don't forget to move the Saintess—" Eastiel whispered, straining against the rift.
