Cullen flicked, dashed, leapt—twisting mid-air, dropping into a roll, popping back up like some half-broken acrobat—and repeated the routine in a loop that was less graceful fighter and more like a desperate man running from invisible bees.
Each attack ripped through the air with a sharp hiss, fast enough that Cullen started wondering if dodging was skill… or just dumb luck. Probably the latter.
Regret was the only steady rhythm in his chest. Why had he stayed behind? Levi could have done a better job with his gravity magic. He could find a way crushing this thing into a pulp.
Why did he even volunteer and look heroic?
And out of all the monsters and curses his opponent could've fought, it just had to be puppet magic.
He had heard of puppeteers before, yes. Whispers, tavern gossip, lectures from cranky sorcerers. But this? This was beyond anything his brain had filed under normal problems.
