Of course, the sky didn't literally rip apart. That would have required more paperwork. But anyone looking up at that moment would have been forgiven for thinking someone had taken a celestial can opener to the heavens and pried them open just a crack, just enough to let something truly unpleasant through.
That something was Vorgath Ironmaw.
Pope of the Savage Communion, Warlord of the Ten Thousand Dismembered, and general enthusiast of mayhem, bloodshed, and axes roughly the size of mid-sized vehicles. The moment his weapon came down, it didn't feel like an attack so much as a statement—namely, this planet is in my way.
And yet, Grand Marshall Meilyn Potan—stoic, practical, terrifyingly composed Meilyn—met it. One swing. One block. And for a breathless heartbeat, the world didn't end.
Around her, the air rippled with summoned power.
