It was a perfect, endless cycle of escalating devastation. Each time a bone snapped with the wet crack of kindling, each time a spell shattered like frozen glass, and each time a body was hurled across the courtyard like refuse, the other found an answer.
They weren't just fighting with magic and muscle; they were communicating.
They were two unstoppable forces grinding each other down to their rawest essences, learning the fundamental architecture of each other's souls through the only language that couldn't lie: violence.
Around the edges of this apocalyptic theater, the watchers could do nothing but cling to their own humanity.
Cassandra stood frozen, her knuckles having gone bone white around the hilt of her sword, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches.
Gorvasha, whose cruelty usually demanded entertainment, had long since stopped laughing; his face was a pale mask of grim realization.
