Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Master Magnus slowly unwrapped the black cloth he had taken from his hidden pocket. In his hands was a simple-looking doll, depicting a grown woman in a long house dress. She had no swords or armor, and her face, carved from light linden wood, expressed infinite peace and quiet care.
"You know, Valerius," the old man squeaked, and his voice in the ensuing silence sounded surprisingly soft, "we were all children once. We all needed protection and warmth. But war makes us forget that. It turns us into prickly hedgehogs, biting the world in response to any pain."
Legate Valerius, his face twisted in a grimace of fury and fatigue, tried to stand. His Vessel pulsed, ejecting the remnants of his power in an attempt to restore the Polarity Shift, but the air around him seemed to become viscous.
"I don't give a damn about your philosophy!" Valerius spat. "Your dolls burn just as well as people!"
Magnus merely shook his grey head sadly and tossed the doll into the air. "Spirit of Ancient Toys: Mothers and Daughters."
As soon as the doll touched the ground, it instantly grew, reaching the height of a tall woman. Her movements were no longer mechanical—she smoothly straightened the folds of her wooden dress and turned to Valerius. No threat emanated from her, but the very space around the creature filled with the scent of dried lavender and warm cream.
Valerius lunged forward, swinging his sword for a strike, but the mother-doll did not defend herself. She simply spread her arms, as if for an embrace. In that same second, endless strips of soft, but incredibly strong white fabric burst from her sleeves.
These were not chains or ropes. They were swaddling cloths, saturated with the will of the Agrim Herald.
The fabric enveloped Valerius instantly. The Legate tried to use the Polarity Shift to push the bonds away, but his power, touching the swaddling cloths, simply subsided. He felt his inner essence, his fury and thirst for battle, rapidly fade, as if being lulled, forced to sleep.
"What... what are you doing?!" Valerius cried out, but his voice sounded weak and pathetic.
The mother-doll embraced him, pressing him to her. The white strips bound his armor, arms, and legs, depriving him of any ability to move. Valerius felt his energy literally being sucked out by this creature, flowing into the Temple's structure. He had become a child in the hands of a titan. His Vessel, which had been seething with power only moments ago, now rapidly emptied, leaving only ringing emptiness and cold.
It was not physical destruction, but conceptual suppression. Magnus had used "play" as a way to deprive the enemy of the very foundation of his warrior existence.
Valerius, gathering the last crumbs of his will, let out an inhuman roar. His eyes momentarily flared with a dazzling black light—he made a final, suicidal release of his remaining essence. With a wild crack, the swaddling cloths tore, and the Legate, falling from the doll's embrace, collapsed to his knees.
He was drenched in sweat, his armor covered with frost from internal cooling, and his breathing had become a wheezing whistle. Valerius looked at Magnus, but his gaze could no longer focus. He was empty. Absolutely and finally. He had no strength left even to raise his sword.
Magnus approached him, and the mother-doll once again turned into a tiny figurine, falling into the old man's palm. "Good game, boy," the Agrim Master said quietly. "You grew up too fast."
At that moment, the dialogue was interrupted. The entire hall was suddenly flooded with a dazzling white light.
It was the same radiance that had overtaken Grak and Kaelen. It came from the central point of the Temple, sweeping away shadows and sounds, turning reality into an endless white veil. Magnus squeezed his eyes shut, covering his face with his hand, while Valerius, stripped of all defense, simply fell flat on his back, consumed by this flash of divine scale.
The battle in the Central Node froze. All groups, all Heralds and Warriors, momentarily ceased to exist as separate wills, becoming mere shadows against the backdrop of approaching events.