"Raven, don't—"
She spoke a tad too late.
The two warriors exploded into motion. Steel clashed against steel, the sound ringing through the night air and probably waking up every bird within five miles.
Sirah moved like rage incarnate. Every swing of her sword carried enough force to split a tree in half, but she controlled it perfectly. Years of training, hundreds of battles, all condensed into economical movements that wasted nothing and promised death, fully on display.
Raven, on the other hand, was smoke and shadow, slipping around attacks that should've taken her head clean off. Her smaller blade darted in and out, testing, probing, looking for weaknesses in Sirah's defense.
This wasn't random scouts or drunk warriors anymore. Sirah had probably killed more people than Melisa had ever met. She knew every trick, every feint, every desperate move someone might try when they were about to die.
But Melisa wasn't about to let Raven face her alone.
