Maeven's hand shot up, gripping the blade again. Blood poured down his arm, but he held it still. His pale eyes locked onto Lindarion's, blazing with hunger.
"You think this is power? No. This—" he yanked the sword closer, shadows screaming as they writhed between them "—is only the beginning."
And with a surge of corrupted force, he blasted Lindarion backward once more.
The elf hit the ground hard, sliding across cracked stone. His lungs seized, blood bubbling in his throat.
[Warning: Synchronization breach approaching critical. Vessel collapse imminent.]
The sword pulsed wildly now, shadows crawling up his arm, across his chest. His skin burned where they touched, like his veins themselves were being rewritten.
Maeven staggered forward, body mangled but mending with each step. His chest still smoked where the blade had struck, the wound refusing to fully close. He pressed a hand to it, blood soaking his pale fingers.
