The one with the whip roared and launched again. But Asher flicked his fingers—Sanguine Threads burst from his palm, sharp, red, and hungry. They intercepted the whip mid-lash and consumed it, the shadows shrieking in protest.
Then the chain-blade coiled around him, aiming to bind and cleave.
Asher vanished.
No—he became blood. A pool of viscous crimson spread beneath the chains, reforming behind the wielder in a breath. His scythe sang.
SHHHRNK!
One winged arm fell, then the other. Asher's blade had carved clean through, and before the dark elf could scream, he stepped forward and thrust a blood-forged spike through the elf's throat, twisting it until the body went still.
"Two down," Asher said calmly, red mist swirling around him.
Valeris and Veyra stood back, the wind of the battle howling against their hair and clothes. Valeris's arms were crossed, eyes glowing, but she made no move to intervene. She knew better than to step in when Asher was enjoying himself.
