The forest clearing pulsed with tension, the very air trembling beneath the weight of two opposing forces.
Wrenalthor struck first—his blade a blur of movement, slicing through the space between them with uncanny precision. His aura flared behind him, a luminous storm of ethereal blue that licked the edges of the trees like wildfire.
The ground beneath his boots crackled with residual magic, and when his hood had fallen, the full force of his gaze became clear.
His eyes—gleaming crimson, sharp and unblinking—glowed like bloodlit gems beneath his dark fringe.
West met him head-on.
The edges of his mana sword pulsed with jagged light, more emotion than form, more wrath than craft. His dark eyes—cold, unwavering—glowed like twin violet flames, brighter with each swing he deflected, each strike he delivered.
Wrenalthor spun, ducked, surged forward again. The sound of their magic clashing rang out across the clearing like the shattering of stars.
