The blade fell.
Not like steel to steel, not like flesh torn by iron, but like a verdict written into the marrow of the world. It carved the air in silence, a sweep of black flame too heavy for sound, too inevitable for resistance. My arms raised out of instinct, ash blade lifted to meet it—yet I knew before the clash that it would not hold.
When they met, the sound was the scream of glass breaking under the weight of mountains. The ash blade splintered in my grip, shards bursting outward only to dissolve into smoke before they struck the ground.
The impact hurled me to my knees. My bones rattled like hollow reeds, my breath ripped from me as if torn by unseen hands. Ash swirled in choking clouds around me, heavy, suffocating.
And he stood there.
The commander.
