Kaaz struck first.
Not with a flourish—just a direct, fluid step into range. His blade-arm snapped forward in a blur, edge aimed straight for Asmodea's clavicle, as if carving out her breath.
She twisted.
Not dodging—unfolding.
Her vines peeled from her shoulders like living ribbons, intercepting his slash with a burst of thorned bloom. The impact cracked through the frost, green-red tendrils wrapping around his wrist before he slipped away, already resetting his stance.
A second vine followed, jabbing low.
He spun, redirected it with his forearm, severed it near the base with a flick of his blade, and surged forward again—three quick slashes in a tight arc aimed at her chest.
"Fast hands," Asmodea breathed, her body swaying between them like a flame in the wind.
She didn't parry. She moved in close.
He gritted his teeth the moment her breath hit his skin.
Her palm landed softly against his chest.
Not a strike.
An invitation.
