The sky had begun to bruise.
Clouds crawled overhead, sluggish and low, pressing down on the battlefield with the weight of an unspoken omen.
Somewhere in the distance, the bell of the old monastery tolled once—faint and hollow, as if mourning a death that had yet to come.
Dust lingered in the air like ash.
The ground between them was torn with gouges, pits, and impact craters. Trees leaned away. Shadows clung to the edges of the clearing, too fearful to cross the invisible line where the duel was being written in ruin.
Eli wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth—not his, but Ian's.
A trace. Just enough to stain his glove.
He looked at it.
Then looked at him.
Ian stood motionless, Judgement held loosely at his side. His breath came slow, steady. But even in stillness, he looked wrong. As if the world had forgotten how to fit around him.
The runes on his chest had begun to dim again, fading into a slow, steady pulse.
