Drakovitch rose slowly from his knees, the violent sound of bones snapping and resetting echoing across the freezing, lightless summit. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a sudden, localized pressure—the intense, sickening shift of mana that signaled a rebirth.
"No… way…"
He stood frozen, his hand not even reaching for the black sword behind him. His gaze was locked on the swirling wall of violet mist. Confusion, anticipation, and a sudden, cold seed of doubt swirled through his mind.
"Did… someone… actually succeed?"
Suddenly, the right side of the fog was violently displaced, as if struck by a shockwave. Out of the mist emerged a limb that defied every known law of human anatomy: a massive, obsidian scaled hand tipped with razor sharp black claws.
But there was no arm to support it. The hand was the apex of a leathery, midnight-blue wing, its phalanges elongated into terrifying, structural weapons.
"A—a dragon wing?"
