The desert air crackled with energy, the void itself humming in anticipation. Lucien, Kairo, and Ashveil faced Veythar, their silhouettes cast against a horizon jagged with the ruins of sand and scorched stone.
Veythar's eyes glowed faintly gold, the remnants of the void he wielded curling subtly around him like living smoke. Ashveil crouched low, void shadows licking along his limbs, ready to strike in perfect timing with the other two.
Lucien exhaled, feeling the White stirring inside him, responding to the presence of another of its kin. He and Kairo exchanged a glance—no words, only instinct—and the battle began.
Ashveil moved first. His fist blurred, leaving streaks of shadow that twisted midair before smashing toward Veythar's chest. Veythar stepped aside with unsettling calm, countering with a sweep of his own void energy. The force didn't merely clash—it twisted the desert around them, small fragments of sand spinning into vortexes that responded to each strike.
Lucien and Kairo leapt simultaneously. Lucien's blade hummed with void-light as he slashed downward; Kairo's bloodsteel curved in arcs, moving with preternatural synchronicity. Veythar deflected each with a casual flick of his hand, yet the force of their combined attacks cracked the ground beneath him.
The fight escalated. Ashveil darted behind Veythar, launching a series of rapid strikes, elbows snapping like pistons, legs swinging in acrobatic sweeps. Veythar caught one, then another, but the effort forced him to pivot, giving Lucien the opportunity to vault and slam a palm into his chest. Kairo spun behind him, striking upward with a knee, using the momentum to push off the ground and launch another assault.
It wasn't just a fight—it was a dance. Shadow met flame, void energy twisting into a storm of movement and impact. Every strike, block, and dodge was exaggerated yet precise, the kind of choreography that left the air shimmering in its wake.
And then something clicked: they weren't just fighting Veythar—they were expressing themselves. Lucien vaulted over a collapsing pillar, spinning midair before slamming both fists into the sand. Ashveil rolled under a swipe, then sprang to his feet, crouched atop a boulder with one hand brushing the stone, the other extended like a conductor commanding invisible forces. Kairo casually caught an incoming fist with his forearm, twisted it, and hurled the opponent backward with minimal effort.
For a moment, all three moved as if the void was part of them, a conductor's baton shaping every motion. They weren't just attacking—they were posing, performing, asserting their presence. Veythar's eyes gleamed, amusement flickering.
"You three… still children, even with this power," he murmured, stepping back, letting their strikes connect without fear. "Do you think raw skill can contain me?"
Ashveil's voice rang out, low and jagged with laughter. "Perhaps not. But skill is more fun than caution."
Lucien mirrored him, stepping forward and spinning through a strike that shredded the ground, while Kairo danced across the debris like a predator. For several minutes, the desert became a storm of fists, feet, and void-infused collisions—every strike exaggerated, every motion sculpted like martial artistry. The three of them moved as one, flowing between offense and defense, improvising strikes that ignored the threat of Veythar's power.
Finally, Veythar stopped. His chest heaved slightly. "Enough," he said, the words calm yet heavy. "You have skill. Enough to hurt me… eventually. But not yet."
Lucien and Kairo stood panting, void energy flickering faintly along their limbs. Ashveil grinned, brushing dust from his shoulders, cloak fluttering impossibly.
"So we… lose?" Kairo asked, wryly.
Ashveil's grin widened. "Doesn't matter. We danced."
Lucien sheathed his blade, letting the energy of the White subside for a moment. "Then let's enjoy it," he said. He vaulted onto a fallen boulder, arms spread wide, chest rising proudly. Kairo swung a hand, flipping an undead fragment of sand into the air, and landed on it with perfect poise. Ashveil did the same, boots planted on a fractured stone, cloak flowing, shadows curling around him like smoke in celebration.
The desert lay in ruins around them, the clash leaving devastation in its wake. Yet in that moment, the three of them stood not just as warriors—but as performers of their own destructive art, undefeated in spirit even when power failed to fully decide the outcome.
And somewhere deep beneath the sands, the pulse of the void responded to their presence, hinting that this confrontation was only the beginning.