The crowd moved as one, their finery shifting and catching the light as they followed the action across the arena, hit and counter-hit.
Ferocious pulses of electricity, of darkness, of poison and acid stabbed and arced through the air, crackling off the powerful shield that protected the audience.
A succession of pokémon stamped and cracked the arena floor, trading blows, feet and claws and paws leaving broad gouges in the substrate or floating above it.
The trainers would have been on that floor, once; the old clan adepts had fought alongside their pokémon—fought
their pokémon—on storm-swept battlefields for the glory of their queens and princes, or against monsters, or evil gods.
Nocturna raised her arm and pointed at the mega-evolved electivire, her cape and robes billowing in timed gusts from carefully placed wind machines.
A mega stone glittered at her throat, inset in a necklace of silver scales.
"Venoquake, Amarna," she pronounced in rolling tones that echoed over the sound system.
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