They both try again. Harder. Medoran pours more power into the token until it glows red-hot in his hand. Gresvin attempts to stabilize the dimensional matrix of his shard with runic chant.
Neither item responds.
Across the battlefield, Lysaria watches them with a slow, amused blink. Her plague spear spins lazily in one hand, the tip slick with Gresvin's blood. She lets out a quiet, musical laugh that doesn't match the blood drying on her jaw.
"Oh, did you really think you could run?" she says lightly, almost playfully. "How sweet."
Medoran grits his teeth. "You're blocking spatial transfer—!"
"Obviously," she cuts in, voice sharp with mockery. "This entire zone is under the influence of a Tier 7 item: Seal of Ashen Heaven. Anything that tries to breach this space—teleportation, shifting, dimensional phasing—won't even sputter. You're caged."
