The battle had raged on for a while.
The night air was thick with the smell of burning rubber and scorched asphalt, laced with the metallic scent of blood from Anya's split lip.
The echoes of their previous clashes still rang through the streets—shattered concrete, twisted street signs, and deep gashes carved into the road from the sheer force of their attacks.
Anya weaved through the storm of slashes, her muscles coiled like steel cables as she narrowly avoided the gleaming horizontal arc of Mar'Garet's spear.
The spearhead sliced the air with a haunting whistle, sharp enough that even the mere force of it passing by sent tingling jolts down her skin.
Fast. Too fast.
A single graze could be deadly. Anya had already learned that the hard way when a shallow cut from an earlier exchange left her forearm stinging, the smell of burnt flesh mingling with the night air.
