Vaermina's Arena: Keeper's Bane

Thunder died down in the Spectator's mind. Before him was a small military encampment of deep red tents, resting at the base of a mountain. Beyond these two landmarks was an infinite desert, where the sun was peaking over the horizon of sand dunes.

The voice of torment screamed in his mind.

"I don't appreciate pitiful insolence Let me remind you of the Third Sin of your people - the Sin of Betrayal."

As the sun rose, so too did a lone figure out of the mountain. Garbed in a desert cloak and wielding a scimitar, the figure emerged from a small cave opening within the mountain side - a thousand paces downhill was the sprawling camp.

Lazy fires died down in the growing light - untended through the night. Not a single man had lied awake that night, every man of the encampment sleeped peacefully.

The figure on the mountainside raised their scimitar above their head, grasping it with both hands.

Pank.

Their muscles contracted and the sword fell down, leaving behind Time and Space, ripped in place.

Rato.

The arc of the Sword finished as the very tip collided with the rock of the Mountain. The Scimitar disintegrated in the figure's hands.

Sword.

The mountain shuddered in the late dawn. The peak, a formation of three boulders, unhinged from itself and began to fall. The mountain underneath collapsed, and a wave of rock fell down onto the camp.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

"Look upon your people, Ebonarm. Look at their technique destroying themselves."

The voice of torment was met with soft laughter.

"Your dream is false. Pankrato is not rock."

At this, the wave of rock stopped midair. The dream was broken. Where rock once was, there was now water.

"It is water."

The waves continued unburdened and washed over the camp. Screams erupted from the drowning soldiers. Over a few minutes, the screams died down with their trumpeters.

The voice of torment awoke in his mind.

"They died, fool."

The desert flooded as every grain of sand was not, and was water.

"Not everyone."

A young woman floated to the surface, in her dead hands was the newborn baby she had birthed the night before the dawn. The woman was beautiful, and in her hair was a drowned desert rose. A cry echoed across the waters.

Lightning struck the rose. And long after the Ebonarm was gone from the splinter-realm, lightning struck repeatedly in frustration. The grasp was breaking.