Aenythar's jaws gaped. The world vanished in a blinding flash of searing heat, a rush of displaced air, and then—nothing. No fire. No incinerating pain. Instead, a wave of impossibly thick, acrid smoke slammed into Arin, stealing her breath, stinging her eyes. She gasped, stumbling backward, her hands flailing in the sudden, impenetrable darkness. She couldn't see her own hands, couldn't see the stone beneath her feet.
Chaos erupted around her. The guards, coughing and sputtering, shouted, their voices muffled by the oppressive haze. "Intruder! Blades out! Where in the hells did that come from?"
"What in the fading flame?!" Roen's voice, hoarse with disbelief and rage, cut through the din. He was just as bewildered as she was. He hadn't expected this either.
Arin, disoriented, still couldn't breathe properly. She felt utterly lost in the swirling, suffocating blackness. Where had this smoke come from? Dragons breathed fire, not this choking, otherworldly darkness.
