[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/ZivsXN1.png[/img][/center]
[hr][center][h3]~1445 | PARIS | FASHION SHOW VENUE[/h3][/center][hr]

Despite his shattered ribs, despite his messed-up organs, despite everything that really should have reduced a normal human being into a sobbing and/or unconscious mess, Lucian was perhaps simply too empty-headed to register the pain he was in. After all, he was too pretty for pain, and regardless, his teeth were too perfect to be relegated to combative grunts or grits.

So instead, he clapped and cheered and, as if by cosmic coincidence, triggered the speaker system within the abandoned venue. The music, reserved perhaps to serve as ambience for socialization or for accompanying models on runways, kicked in immediately, [url= https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8kOo9-xw7Y]a groovy, pulsating beat[/url] that Edward’s skeletons immediately synchronized with, their hips swinging side to side in tempo with the song as his lightning bloomed from his staff.

It was dangerous, perhaps, but it worked as well. Lightning cracked against the spectral dragon’s skull, causing its head to snap back in the instant it opened its jaw. Phantom flame bloomed, a blast that deafened the ears. And yet, Vera herself was not caught in it. Her ally’s interference gave her the space as she dropped low, hair singed and skin peeling from residual heat. Sword singing through the heated air.

A clean strike at last, slicing apart the dragon’s skull from snout to spinal cord. Two halves, made imperfect only from previous trauma inflicted, fell to the ground before scattering into dust. The body that remained soon followed, crumbling as well into aether, leaving only being the echoes of Vertan.

They had slain the dragon.

The dragon was but a spell.

And now, what were they to do?