Vaelira's mind, trained for battlefield patterning, couldn't help dissecting the display. She saw how his left heel always settled a thumb-width behind the right, how his breathing synced with the giant's swings so exhale matched impact and inhale filled the half-beat of retreat. She noticed the near-invisible rotations of his wrists that turned blocks into parries, parries into ripostes. It was art rendered in inches and breaths.
Another wave of slavers spilled from the treeline—halberds, nets threaded with anti-mage glyphs, mancatcher poles glittering with barbs designed for elven limbs. Their boots thudded in practiced unison, a drumline of iron intent. Farther back, mages pressed bloodied palms to glowing runes, chanting in harsh consonants. Heat rolled off their circles, warping the starlight above them.
