The air between them burned, warping the snow into steam that rose like ghosts.
Velra—no, the parasite wearing her body—moved with a dreadful grace. Every step she took left behind ripples of molten earth, her magic distorting the world around her like heat off metal.
Across from her, the man who had once been confident, even mocking, was now running on fumes. His breathing had grown shallow, each exhale visible in the smoldering air. His sword trembled slightly in his grasp—not from fear, but from fatigue.
Still, he didn't back down.
Velra tilted her head, the motion eerily precise. "Tired already?" she asked, voice lilting like a song and venomous beneath the melody. "How disappointing. I expected more from someone so eager to play hero."
He didn't answer. His eyes tracked her every movement, calculating, studying. Behind that exhaustion burned a stubborn spark—a refusal to yield.
