But it was what happened next that caused Odessa's eyes to widen in genuine surprise.

Jaenor raised his hands before him, palms facing each other about a foot apart, and began to concentrate.

The air between his palms began to glow with the same purple radiance that marked Origin power at its purest, but instead of forming the typical bolts or barriers that most practitioners favored, the energy began to take on a specific shape.

Slowly, deliberately, a bow began to form between his hands—not carved from wood or forged from metal, but constructed entirely from crystallized Origin energy.

The weapon that took shape was a thing of terrible beauty, its limbs curved with calculated precision while the string hummed with barely contained power. Every line of it spoke of both artistry and lethality, a weapon that could pierce the veil between worlds as easily as it could punch through armor.

"Impressive," Odessa murmured, unable to keep the amazement from her voice.

"I've never seen anyone construct a physical weapon from pure Origin before. The level of control required..."

Jaenor's grin was fierce and predatory as he tested the bow's draw, the string singing with harmonics that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of reality.

"You taught me that power without focus is just destruction. I prefer precision."

Without another word, he launched himself from the rocky outcropping, his six wings carrying him through the smoke-filled air with graceful efficiency.

Below, the burning town spread out like a map of hell, orange flames painting the buildings in shifting patterns of light and shadow while screams rose like a sinister chorus.

His target was easy to spot—in the central market square, the one large orc continued his systematic slaughter, his massive form towering above the fleeing civilians like a mountain of iron and malice.

Even at this distance, Jaenor could see the creature raising its war-axe above a cowering figure—probably a shopkeeper or craftsman who had been caught in the open when the attack began.

There was no time for subtlety, no opportunity for tactical consideration.

Jaenor drew back the bowstring, feeling Origin power flow through him like liquid fire as he focused his will into a single point of absolute destruction.

The arrow that formed was not made of wood and steel but of pure energy compressed to a density that made the air around it warp and shimmer.

There was a subtle noise of sharp whistling as he pulled the string.

He aimed carefully, compensating for wind and distance and the chaotic movement of the battle below, then released.

The arrow streaked through the night sky like a falling star, its purple radiance cutting through smoke and shadow as it descended toward its target.

SUUREEUKKK!!

The sound it made streaking through the air was deafening.

A simple orc warrior, raising his crude axe to deliver a killing blow to a cowering human, never saw death approaching from above.

The impact was devastating.

The energy arrow struck the creature's skull with the force of a lightning bolt, the compressed Origin power detonating on contact in an explosion of purple fire that lit up half the square.

When the radiance faded, where the orc had stood, there was nothing but scattered ash and a smoking crater in the cobblestones.

For a moment, perfect silence fell over the market square as both orc and human alike stared in shocked disbelief at the spot where the warrior had been annihilated.

Then, as if released from a spell, chaos erupted anew—but this time, the orcs roared with fury rather than fled in terror.

From the shadows of the grain storehouse emerged a figure that dwarfed even his massive kin. The Orc Lord stepped into the firelight like a mountain given malevolent life, his scarred hide bearing the trophies of a thousand battles.

This was Grashek the Bone-Breaker, a creature whose name was whispered in fear across a dozen kingdoms. His war-axe, forged from meteoric iron and inscribed with runes of slaying, gleamed with a dark light as he surveyed the destruction wrought by the mysterious archer.

High above, Jaenor allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction as he watched the enemy forces scatter like leaves before a hurricane.

It was a good start, but he knew the real work was just beginning.

Somewhere in this burning maze of streets and alleyways, innocent people were still dying, and it was up to him to ensure that as few as possible joined the Orc in whatever hell awaited such creatures.

Banking his wings, he dove toward the town, ready to bring hope to those who had thought themselves abandoned to darkness.

-

-

While Jaenor descended toward the town like an avenging angel, his companion carved a path through the smoke-filled sky above the battlefield of Berdshire Fortress.

Baren's orange scales gleamed like molten copper in the firelight as he soared through the air, his powerful wings beating with the rhythm of war drums.

Each stroke sent him surging forward with incredible speed, the wind of his passage causing the flames below to dance and flicker.

A roar erupted from his throat—not the mindless bellow of a beast, but a sound filled with intelligence and fury and the promise of retribution.

The sound rolled across the battlefield like thunder, causing both the living and the undead to pause in their combat and look skyward.

Even the Lich King's skeletal dragon ceased its aerial duel with Swefarna for a moment, its hollow eye sockets turning toward this new arrival with something that might have been curiosity in a creature capable of such emotion.

Baren's keen dragonic vision swept across the chaotic melee below, picking out familiar figures among the press of battle.

There—fighting back to back near the base of the fortress walls—he spotted the distinctive auburn hair of Rena as she constructed patterns of Origin energy with desperate precision. Beside her, Taeryn's spear work had become a blur of silver light as he held off a pressing crowd of skeletal warriors.

He seemed to be injured, as blood was streaking down on his left hand.

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