The mist of Grimfang Wastes swallowed the battlefield in silence.
Lynvar's body slammed against the jagged ground, carving a shallow trench through ash and broken stone before finally stopping. Steam hissed violently as scorched earth met freezing moisture leaking from his shattered control.
His mask—once pristine, once untouchable—was cracked.
A long fracture ran from the left eye down to the jawline, glowing faintly red from within. Beneath it, flesh burned black and purple, muscles twitching as if refusing to accept defeat.
Lynvar coughed.
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, instantly evaporating into mist.
"…Impossible…" he muttered, his voice hoarse, distorted.
He tried to rise.
His right arm responded too slowly. Mana surged—but collapsed halfway, rebounding painfully through his core. The fireball hadn't just burned him.
It had disrupted him.
Reeve's attack wasn't raw destruction.
It was control.
Lynvar pressed a shaking hand to his chest. His heartbeat was erratic—mana circulation unstable, water and fire clashing violently inside him. The healing factor that once saved him now worked against him, trying to repair burned mana pathways with corrupted flow.
A low, broken laugh escaped his throat.
"So… you learned," he whispered.
Not just fire.
Not just speed.
But timing.
Distance.
Intent.
The mist around him stirred unnaturally, reacting to his weakening presence. Shadows bent closer, listening.
Lynvar clenched his teeth and forced himself upright, one knee hitting the ground hard.
His gaze turned toward the direction Reeve had fallen earlier.
"…You're still alive," he said quietly, almost respectfully now.
"Even after that."
For the first time—
Fear crept in.
Not fear of death.
But fear of being surpassed.
Lynvar raised his head toward the dark sky hidden beyond the mist.
"The next time…" he said, voice cold again, reforged by hatred,
"…I won't underestimate you."
Mana flared around him—unstable, violent, tearing the fog apart in pulses. The mist responded, folding inward like a curtain closing on a stage.
His figure blurred.
Not an escape.
A withdrawal.
The battlefield was left scorched, silent, and heavy with unspoken consequences.
Somewhere far away—
Lunareth felt it.
A ripple through mana itself.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously.
"…He survived," she murmured.
Kaelith, standing with clenched fists, stared into the mist where Lynvar had vanished. His expression was unreadable—anger, relief, and something darker mixing together.
"Elaryn broke the silence, voice low."
"This changes everything."
And deep within Reeve—
Unseen.
Unspoken.
Something answered back.