Thread's scythe screamed through the air, trailing a burning crescent of red that split stone and kicked up gouts of flame.
Lan parried with Devil's Lie, the cursed sword shuddering with force, the impact throwing a pulse of energy through the air.
Lan twisted, letting Thread's next slash pass close to his face, close enough to draw a shallow line of blood across his cheek. He gritted his teeth.
Thread's blood magic was growing—thicker, darker. The air stank of iron, the scent cloying, metallic, and sharp like vinegar left too long in the sun.
"You feel it, don't you?" Thread laughed, breathing hard. "The weight of it. The closer I bleed to death, the stronger I become."
Lan lunged, blade cutting low. Thread jumped back just in time—but not without cost. Devil's Lie grazed his ribs, and black smoke hissed from the wound.
Thread didn't hesitate at the cut. Instead, he smiled wider, and that smile was wrong. Wrong in its calm. Wrong in its devotion.
