The dust had barely settled.
They stood opposite each other in the shadow of Esgard's crumbling outer wall—no crowd, no arena, no noble eyes.
Only wind, silence, and the ghosts of restraint. The city behind them seemed to breathe with unease, as if sensing that something primal and dangerous had been set in motion.
Eli rolled his shoulders slowly, the leather of his coat creaking faintly.
He unslung the weapon from across his back—an old blade with a hilt worn by war, not ceremony. It gleamed only faintly, kissed by the light of the overcast sky.
His eyes, golden and sharp, locked onto Ian.
"Let's see how much you've grown."
Across from him, Ian didn't respond.
He reached into the folds of reality —and withdrew Judgement.
The sword of utter black.
There was no light on its surface. No reflection. Just a void that drank the sun, that devoured the eye.
