The Titan’s skull trembled as the Draining Spell ignited, releasing a wave of pale, humming light that washed across the Boiling Isles like a second sunrise—cold, sterile, and wrong. The great sigil carved into the land pulsed in jagged rhythm, each throb sending cracks racing through stone, bone, and the very air. Magic itself felt heavier, sluggish, as if the world were being forced to hold its breath. Above, the Eclipse loomed unnaturally fixed in the sky, locked in place by an invisible hand.

All around the head of the Titan, chaos unfolded. Witches staggered as their power was siphoned upward in shimmering streams, pulled toward the ritual site where nine towering pillars melted into a single vortex of light. Coven scouts barked frantic orders, some trying to contain civilians, others abandoning their posts entirely as they realized what the spell was doing. The ground shuddered in waves, knocking debris loose from the massive rib-like structures that arched over the battlefield.

Off in the distance, wild magic reacted violently, bursting into flickering storms of color that warped the landscape. Familiar hideouts and storefronts twisted into unfamiliar shapes as raw energy lashed out at anything caught in its path. The air buzzed with fear—cries for help, explosions, frantic footsteps—while the eerie hum of the spell drowned beneath it all like an approaching heartbeat.

At the center of the chaos, a blinding column of light speared upward toward the sky, expanding, bending, reshaping the atmosphere. The spell was accelerating. Magic was dying. And anyone still standing on the Isles had only moments to decide: run, fight, hide… or try the impossible and stop it.