And those Children—unlike the Eldest Born standing far off on her platform—didn't seem to possess much detectable magic power at all.
At least not the kind I could sense radiating outward in any meaningful way.
There was no much glow, or any pulsing aura of reinforcement, and no telltale shimmer in the air that would suggest they were actively channeling magic to strengthen their bodies or enhance their durability.
So it must mean that even a fully powered-up Clay, the same Clay who had been tearing through the lesser Children like they were nothing more than weak, wet wool, ripping limbs free with casual swings of her club, shattering torsos with single blows—couldn't truly hurt these five Borns without significant effort.
Their grey, mud-like skin might look unstable and sloppy from a distance, but up close it clearly held a level of resilience far beyond the swarming fodder she had been dismantling so effortlessly moments earlier.
