The moment Magnus's fingers curled fully around the hilt of his sword, the very air changed.
The wind around him didn't just howl—it screamed.
A violent storm burst from the pillar he stood on, spiraling upward and outward like a cyclone made of knives. Stone cracked beneath his boots. Dust and debris scattered like frightened birds. His eyes burned with focus now, his myst no longer suppressed but unchained—eager, wild, unrelenting.
Across from him, Einar grinned. Not a cocky grin or a mocking one.
It was the grin of a warrior who knew the opening move of the true battle had just been played.
He slammed his black sword into the root platform beneath his feet, and instantly, the earth responded. Vines, stone, and hardened bark wrapped up his legs, across his waist, encasing him in living armor that pulsed with green and brown myst. A crown of woven roots curled back from his shoulders like thorns eager for blood.
The ground beneath both warriors cracked.
Magnus moved first.
