The fight didn't last minutes.
It didn't last hours.
It lasted weeks.
Right. Weeks.
From the moment Malik's blade met Zamharir's ice, the battlefield around them became their personal arena.
The war raged on in the background—sieges, raids, skirmishes—but their battle?
Their battle was something else entirely.
Every time one of them got close to finishing the other, the fight twisted, shifted, and flipped on its head, dragging them both back into the chaos.
Malik was fast.
That was his advantage.
Not just speed, but movement, instinct, unpredictability.
Zamharir? He was the opposite.
He was steady, methodical, and precise.
His armor of ice made him nearly untouchable to anything but Malik's Spine Splitter, and his control over the battlefield was uncontested, displaying his much greater experience.
He laid traps without even thinking, turning entire stretches of land into frozen deathtraps.
