"Your aim is sloppy, mage."
Raëdrithar concurred, unleashing a piercing screech. Static rippled down Sylvanna's braid, feeding the runes carved along her bow. With each breath she drew, the vault's charged air tasted brighter, almost metallic on the tongue.
On the catwalk, Draven met the aide's upward strike with crossed blades. Steel shrieked. Force numbed his arms, but he turned the blow, leveraged her momentum, spun, and hooked her ankle. She back-flipped over the sweep, landed catlike, and thrust with the staff's opposite end—blade now free. Draven parried high, slid inside guard, elbowed her ribs, and felt armor plate flex but not crack. She was trained well.
Below, mages trapped behind his wire screamed for help—or mercy—he could never tell. Not relevant.
