The battlefield hadn't gone quiet.
Not really.
But for the first time since this started, the noise felt distant.
Like the air itself was holding its breath. Or watching.
Lindarion blinked the last of the light from his vision. His legs weren't moving yet, and his ribs definitely had a few opinions, but he was upright. Technically.
Ashwing paced in front of him in slow, angry circles. Tail twitching. Wings low. Eyes locked on the dark mage like he was ready to try a second round, maybe with more teeth this time.
'Settle, you overgrown ember.'
But Lindarion didn't say it.
Because Lira stepped forward.
And everything else got out of the way.
She didn't run.
She didn't scream.
She didn't even speak.
She just moved.
A slow walk at first. Boots crunching through scorched frost and half-melted ice. Shadows wrapped around her ankles like affectionate serpents. Her blade hung at her side, not in defeat. In promise.
The mage raised his staff again.
Slower now.
Cautious.
