Opposite him, Lindarion stood with blade in hand, golden eyes fixed yet strangely tranquil. His posture was not of a warrior locked in mortal struggle, but of one walking along a riverbank, watching currents flow beneath his feet.
The silence stretched.
Ashwing broke it in Lindarion's mind, his tone half-amused, half-impatient. 'He's going to break his arms if he pushes that much mana through them. Why don't you stop him?'
'Because,' Lindarion answered silently, 'he deserves to finish what he began. Even if it costs him.'
'That's stupid.'
'It's respect.'
Ashwing huffed. 'Still stupid.'
The staff moved.
Thalan struck with speed no ordinary elf could have mustered. His body blurred, staff whistling through the air with arcs that bent and curved, splitting into afterimages of green. Roots lashed upward again, sharper now, thinner, weaving like serpents, striking from every angle at once.
The clearing lit with emerald fire.
