From the high tower overlooking the plaza, Veylan's sharp eyes tracked the movements below. He clenched his fists, watching as his carefully trained assassins fell one by one under the onslaught of Eryndor and Kael.
Each strike, each dodge, each movement of the duo was precise, flowing like water and lightning fused together. The assassins had no chance — some went down in a single blow, others twisted midair only to crash into stone or each other.
Veylan's teeth ground together. He had predicted everything — every pattern, every weakness — and yet, his agents had failed spectacularly. The fury boiling inside him was almost physical.
He slammed his hand against the edge of the tower balcony. "Impossible," he hissed. "How could they…"
Before he could finish, a subtle vibration under his boots made him pause. Something in the air shifted — a pulse, faint at first, then growing, like the heartbeat of a storm.
He spun, eyes scanning, instincts screaming. But it was too late.
From the shadows of the tower stairs, Eryndor stepped forward, calm, deliberate. Lightning still flickered faintly across his hands, not aggressive, just enough to announce his presence.
Kael followed, blade glinting, cloak swaying as he moved with that predatory confidence that made warriors hesitate.
Veylan's jaw tightened. "You… you should be dead," he whispered, but the words were more accusation than hope.
Eryndor's eyes never left his. "Not today," he said simply. No flourish, no dramatic preamble. Just fact.
Before Veylan could react, Kael leapt forward, sweeping the floor with a precise kick that sent the older man stumbling backward. Eryndor advanced immediately, moving like a predator circling prey.
Veylan struck out, his staff flashing in the sunlight, but Eryndor sidestepped effortlessly. A hand to the chest, a sudden release of lightning — enough to knock the staff away — and Veylan staggered back against the wall.
Kael pressed forward, slicing a diagonal through the air that forced the elder to spin, losing his balance. Every strike they made was fluid, hand-to-hand choreography, perfectly timed. No wasted motion, no hesitation.
Veylan's mind raced. They're not just strong… they move as one. I can't…
The realization came too late. Eryndor's palm slammed into his chest, Kael's blade pressed just above his shoulders, and the two pushed him down into the dust with a force that rattled his bones.
He struggled, kicking, swinging, cursing. But the duo didn't strike to kill — they didn't need to. Every movement contained power restrained only by control, and the moment they decided, he had no escape.
Kael's voice was calm, almost casual. "Relax. You're not dying today, Veylan. But… you are coming with us."
Eryndor nodded, kneeling briefly to adjust a grip that kept Veylan pinned without crushing him. "You've caused enough chaos for one day. The city will be safer without you running free."
Veylan roared, but the sound carried no weight. The fight was over, though his pride screamed otherwise.
By the time the city guards—alerted by the battle but too slow to intervene—arrived, Veylan was bound, disarmed, and under escort, his fury and dignity intact only in his glare. Eryndor and Kael walked beside him, shadows and storm walking in unison, calm and unyielding.
From the rooftops, the citizens watched. Rumors would spread. Fear would settle. The so-called untouchables had just been shown: no one is untouchable.
And in the eyes of the duo, Veylan was just another lesson learned.