In another battle, the ring was filled with a fierce, biting wind, Marcos's trademark until then. The howling of the air filled the ears, carrying dust that scratched the skin. His cloak floated like an extension of the air around him, rippling in furious eddies, while his eyes shone with predatory intensity. He was an agile warrior, moving like a shadow carried by the wind, almost dematerialized between the gusts.
On the other side, Lacus stood firm, her feet rooted despite the force pushing her. The wind tousled her hair, which whipped across her face like black whips, but she showed no hesitation. She knew she was facing an opponent whose mastery of the element rivaled her own, a storm against another storm.
Marcos moved his hands quickly, fingers dancing like weavers of chaos, summoning blades of wind that cut through the air with deadly precision, hissing like a thousand invisible daggers.
