The forest glade trembled.
Noel stood in the eye of the storm, breath ragged, fingers clenched around the haft of his ice-forged spear.
Frost misted from his lips with every exhale, his body aching beneath the strain of continuous magic.
His ice spear glimmered with runes, sharp enough to cleave through steel and cold enough to burn flesh.
Yet even now—as his body screamed from overuse and a subtle numbness crept from his right side—he could feel it: it wasn't enough.
Across from him, the two Black Vassals moved as if in tune to a silent rhythm.
Conrad, the butler, his face unreadable, advanced with the poise of a duelist and the calm fury of a man born to kill.
His weapon, an Estoc with a basket hilt, was a long, needle-like sword meant for precision and armor-piercing thrusts.
He wielded it in one hand, the other folded behind his back in perfect dueling etiquette, like a ghost of a forgotten age.
Beside him, Elira danced.
