Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Arannis felt his time running out. Mirza's heavy blows didn't just destroy his ironwood armor—they shook the very foundation of his Vessel. Each time the Sylvan Herald tried to break the distance, the Orc was right there, as if guided not by inertia, but by the very will of the ancient mountains.
"You cannot strike what you cannot see," Arannis hissed, and his eye-vortices filled with a thick grey haze.
He raised his flute to his lips and produced a long, mournful note that seemed to stretch from the darkest corners of the forest. "Spirit of the Storm Wind: Shroud of Phantom Haze!"
A thick, icy fog erupted from under the Sylvan's feet. In seconds, it filled the central part of the hall, absorbing the light of the artificial constellations and the outlines of the statues. This was no ordinary suspension—the fog was saturated with Arannis's inner power, suppressing senses and distorting sounds, turning the space into a zone of absolute disorientation.
Mirza stood still in the very center of this mist. He couldn't see his hands, and his amber eyes peered uselessly into the grey veil. But Arannis didn't wait. He glided through the fog, becoming an invisible hunter.
Cut!
Mirza felt a sharp pain in his right thigh—the emerald blade of the Sylvan had passed through his defense, leaving a deep wound.
Cut!
Another blow struck his back, slashing through the Orc's powerful muscles. Mirza snarled, sweeping his cleaver wide, but the blade only cut through the fog. Arannis was too fast and agile in his element. Several more deep cuts adorned the Orc Herald's body, staining the obsidian slabs with his thick blood.
Mirza felt hot blood stream down his skin. The wounds on his thigh and back pulsed, but there was no fear in his heart. He listened not to the sounds of the wind, but to the voices that always sounded within him.
"Too many tricks, Sylvan," Mirza thought, closing his eyes. "You try to deceive my senses, but you cannot deceive the Blood Memory."
The ritual scars on his body flared not with crimson or gold, but with a pure, ghostly blue light. This light pierced through the fog, creating a halo of otherworldly wisdom around the Orc.
"Spirit of Ancestors: Blessing of the Great Shaman," Mirza boomed, and his voice echoed through the hall with the power of a cathedral organ.
Behind him, the figure of an old, stooped orc in a ritual bone mask materialized. The ghostly shaman raised his staff and struck the floor with it. A wave of pure, crystalline clarity radiated in all directions.
It was not a gust of wind. It was a mental and spiritual impulse that instantly purified the space. Arannis's icy fog didn't just disperse—it literally evaporated, as if it had never been. The Sylvan, frozen for another strike just two paces from Mirza, was exposed.
Arannis froze, his flute nearly slipping from his fingers. He saw Mirza's eyes open—they were no longer amber; in them burned the same ghostly blue fire as in the scars on his body. The Orc Herald saw right through him: not the flesh, but the very threads of his inner power.
"Game over," Mirza said.
He took a short step forward, and under his boot, the floor slab simply burst. The Orc's cleaver shot upwards, absorbing the shaman's wisdom and the hunter's fury. Mirza delivered a blow that left a blue trail in the air.
Arannis managed to cross his emerald blades, but the Orc's power under the Shaman's Blessing was overwhelming. An ear-splitting ring sounded. One of the Sylvan's blades cracked, and he himself, flying across the entire hall, crashed into the base of the central crystal.
Mirza slowly walked towards him, dragging his cleaver behind him. Each of his wounds smoked from an excess of power, and his presence in the hall became so dense that even the other Heralds involuntarily turned his way. The battle was entering its final phase, and Arannis understood: his cunning had been shattered by the age-old wisdom of his enemy.
Above them, the Equilibrium octahedron began to pulse in time with Mirza's heavy steps. Only moments remained until the light would flood this world.