Aelfric met Fior's assault head-on. The young Dark Elf's movements were fast, almost reckless, the dagger in his hand shrouded in thick black miasma that left dark trails with every swing.
Aelfric refused to let the blade come anywhere near him. The last time dead mana had entered his body, he had spent days bedridden, enduring agony that even the healers had struggled to ease. This time, with the amount of corruption coating Fior's weapon, a single clean strike would likely be enough to claim his life before the night was over.
Steel clashed repeatedly beneath the sprawling roots of Yggdrasil as Aelfric gave ground, deflecting one strike after another. Fior's attacks lacked the discipline they had possessed before. There was no restraint or strategy behind them now, only relentless aggression that pushed his body far beyond its natural limits.
