"You feel it, don't you?"
His voice was quieter now, but it carried weight. Not just through the battlefield, but through the leyline itself. The very meltdown pulsed in response to his words, as if acknowledging him.
"The inevitability of it all."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
My grip tightened on my sword. This needed to end.
I surged forward, ignoring the burning in my lungs. The meltdown's energy clung to me, suffocating and raw, but I didn't slow. Every motion was calculated, honed over years of battle, refined in the crucible of war.
Belisarius moved to meet me.
His scythe, jagged and flickering, carved through the air in a lethal arc toward my shoulder. I twisted, my body reacting before my mind even registered the attack. The blade grazed past, slicing through fabric but missing flesh by a fraction. He recovered instantly, bringing the weapon around in a reverse swing meant to cleave through my ribs.
Too slow.
