For a moment—just a moment—hope flickers in their eyes.
Then the dust clears.
And Varkas stands there.
The only sign that he was even hit—thin, shallow scratches across his arms and chest.
His golden eyes burn with excitement. "Now that… that actually tickled."
Elaine stares in disbelief. "No… no way…"
As the golden light fades, dust and debris swirl through the air. Soldiers squint through the haze, waiting—hoping—to see their enemy fall.
But as the dust settles, a massive, unmoving silhouette emerges.
Varkas still stands.
His eyes gleam with something between amusement and disappointment. His fur, once pristine, now bears faint scorch marks. A thin, almost imperceptible cut decorates his cheek, a single drop of dark blood trickling down.
He touches the wound absentmindedly, then chuckles. "There's still more?" His deep, rumbling voice carries across the battlefield, filled with quiet mockery.
