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The forest seemed to hold its breath.
While chaos roared in the woods, Lyra and the assassin moved in silence.
Neither of them seemed to hear the rest of the world — only the other.
One mistake, one blink, and death would come.
He moved first.
The blade passed just inches from her face.
Lyra twisted her torso at the same instant, the air slicing close to her skin.
The next move came by instinct — her right arm lifted the pistol and fired twice, aiming for center mass.
The assassin turned his body diagonally, the katana cutting through the air in a short arc.
The first shot ricocheted off the blade; the second grazed his shoulder, throwing sparks from the metal.
Lyra stepped back twice, feet light, and spun the pistol into her left hand — quick shot, now aiming for the knee.
He sidestepped and came forward right after, katana rising from below in an upward cut.
She lowered her body's axis and slid her right foot across the ground, dodging by millimeters.
The strike passed close to her chin, and the cold wind hit her face.
Before he could finish the movement, Lyra pushed from her hip and spun, landing a sharp kick against the side of his torso.
The impact made the assassin stagger a step back, the metal of his armor groaning under the blow.
She kept her aim in the same instant, pistol leveled at eye height, finger ready.
But he gave no opening — he came again, low, blade sweeping horizontally through the air.
Lyra stepped half back, fired — dry click.
Silence.
The magazine was empty.
She didn't hesitate.
In a single motion, she dropped the pistol, slid her right leg back, and lowered her body.
Her heel turned slightly; the tip of her boot opened with a subtle click.
Her fingers reached the small blade hidden inside.
She pulled it free with a quick twist of her wrist.
The assassin was already in his next attack — a direct vertical cut.
Lyra raised her left arm, blocking with her forearm, deflecting the blow with the knife in her right hand — minimal, precise.
The katana scraped against the short blade, sparks bursting into the air.
She seized the space, turned her wrist, and slashed toward his abdomen, but he stepped back a single inch — enough for the blade to catch only fabric.
His eyes — cold, controlled — locked back onto hers.
Lyra breathed deep, low, ready.
The distance between them now was almost nothing.
He attacked first.
The katana came in diagonal, from shoulder to hip.
Lyra twisted her torso, the cut grazing the side of her body.
She planted her left foot, pushed, and countered with a strike from the knife, aiming at his elbow joint.
The assassin turned his forearm, deflecting the short blade by the smallest angle, and answered with a kick to the stomach.
Lyra blocked with her knee, but the impact still shoved her two steps back.
She slid sideways, feet light, never breaking line of sight.
The assassin spun his body, katana sweeping in a horizontal arc.
Lyra ducked and dove forward, slipping under the strike, her shoulder scraping the leaf-covered ground.
She rose in a turn, slicing upward toward his abdomen.
Metal met air — but he had already turned, deflecting with his forearm, and shoved her wrist upward.
Lyra reacted fast, twisting her hand and using the force of his block to spin — her right heel came up in a turning kick aimed at his head.
The blow grazed the side of his mask, the impact echoing.
The assassin stumbled half a step, but instantly countered — two quick, alternating, precise slashes.
Lyra blocked, the metallic sound ringing through the trees.
She twisted her wrist to disarm him, but he met it with force, wrenching her arm and pulling — the dry clash of blade against knife sounded one last time before her weapon was torn from her hand and buried in the ground.
She stepped back half a pace — but he was already coming.
The katana sliced the air, aiming for her midsection.
Lyra dodged by a hair, lowering her axis, and the next movement came purely from instinct.
She surged forward under the blade's arc, her feet driving her upward.
Her body turned — legs snapping around the assassin's neck, locking tight.
Lyra used her own weight and his momentum against him, twisting her hips and pulling hard.
The world flipped with a crack.
The assassin was thrown flat onto his back, the katana flying from his hands before the impact.
The dry sound echoed through the forest.
Lyra spun in midair and landed on one knee beside him, sliding over the damp earth.
Without hesitation, she turned and kicked, sending the katana flying — the metal scraped across the ground and vanished among the leaves.
She lifted her gaze instantly.
The assassin was already rising, body moving with mechanical stiffness.
This time, he came without the sword.
He charged without pause.
The first punch came straight, aiming for her chin.
Lyra tilted her torso sideways, the fist grazing past.
Before she could react, his other arm swung in a left hook — the impact hit her ribs dead-on.
The dry sound cracked between the trees.
Her breath left her for an instant, body folding.
He took the opening.
Twisted his hip and slammed an elbow into her shoulder.
The blow spun her half around, breaking her guard.
He followed — a punch to the stomach, another to the chest.
Lyra tried to block the second, but the strike broke through, throwing her two steps back.
She slid her foot, trying to recover balance.
The assassin was on her again, no pause.
His right fist came in an arc — Lyra raised her forearm and blocked, but the hit still made her arm tremble.
Before she could react, he spun and landed a turning kick to her ribs.
The crack echoed.
Lyra was thrown against a tree.
She fell to her knees, breath faltering.
Blood started to trickle from the corner of her mouth.
The assassin advanced again.
Lyra lifted her arms just in time to block the next punch, but the impact still drove her into the trunk.
He swung again — a right cross.
She turned her face; his fist struck bark, splinters flying.
Lyra took the opening, kicking at his knee.
The assassin twisted aside, dodging, and countered with a short headbutt that landed square on her forehead.
Her vision flickered.
Her own pulse thundered in her ears.
He grabbed her collar and yanked her forward — his left fist shot up and struck her jaw.
The blow lifted Lyra off the ground for a second before she crashed sideways, rolling through the leaves.
Metallic taste filled her mouth.
She pressed a hand to the ground, gasping, hair falling over her face.
The assassin approached — firm steps, each heavier than the last.
Lyra raised her gaze.
Blood slid down her lip, but her eyes were still steady — cold, calculating.
She spat the blood aside and rose, rolling her shoulder with a crack.
The assassin raised his fists, ready for the next strike.
Lyra smiled.
A thin line of blood ran from her lip, tinting her teeth.
Her eyes glinted — cold, intense, feverish.
The air around her trembled.
Marcus's voice echoed inside her mind, sharp as steel, cutting through the pain:
"I heard you asked Éon to teach you his style… but it's not your body that needs discipline, Lyra — it's the fear that rules it.
You fear what you carry, and that's what makes it dangerous. Remember — power only means something when the body stops fearing it."
His words thundered inside her — contained, alive.
The ground beneath her began to pulse in short vibrations, as if the soil itself breathed with her.
The assassin hesitated for a moment, the wind twisting around them.
Then came the sound — a dry crack, from within her body.
Lyra's fingers opened.
Blood dripped to the ground.
She exhaled slowly.
The wave exploded.
An invisible force swept through the air, distorting everything ahead — the impact struck the assassin full-on, hurling him like a projectile.
He crashed through one tree, then another, disappearing into the dark.
Leaves rose, the ground split, the wind roared for a heartbeat.
And silence returned.
Lyra remained standing — barely.
Her right arm trembled uncontrollably.
Another crack sounded — louder this time, from her shoulder.
Bones seemed to twist beneath her skin.
She fell to her knees.
Her entire body pulsed as if burning from within.
Her breath came in ragged bursts, iron filling her mouth.
The price came, as it always did.
She planted her left hand on the ground, trying to catch her breath.
The forest around her felt distant, blurred.
Blood streamed from her forearm to her fingertips.
The air still vibrated around her.
The echo of the blast died slowly among the broken trees.
Lyra lifted her head, blurred eyes searching the field ahead.
And then she saw — farther on — Karna on his knees.
His left knee buried in the soil, his body bent forward.
Before him, the enemy — blade raised, ready to strike.
Lyra tried to stand, her right arm failing again.
A dry pop of bone shifting echoed through her own body.
She breathed through her teeth, sweat and blood mingling.
Then she saw it — Isabela was already running, shield strapped to her arm, charging through the wreckage toward Karna.
Lyra turned her body, eyes following her for an instant, heart pounding.
The assassin before Karna was already moving, the blade descending.
"Isabela!" Lyra shouted — voice hoarse, carrying more urgency than strength.
Isabela raised her shield in front of her, steady in her run.
Lyra braced on her knee, the air vibrating around her.
Energy gathered — dense, invisible — a crack split the air.
The wave exploded.
The impact struck the shield, the metal booming like thunder.
The force hurled Isabela forward, tearing through the ground in speed.
The blade came down.
The shield hit the enemy before the strike, the impact shaking the earth.
The clash opened space — the sword veered, scraping the soil in sparks.
Karna twisted his body, escaping by a breath.
Isabela rolled on the ground, her shield digging into the mud, stopping her fall.
Lyra collapsed right after, her right arm limp, another dry crack sounding through the air.
Her body trembled.
Blood streamed down her fingers.
But her eyes stayed locked on them — Isabela and Karna — alive.