Azhriel's eyes fluttered open.
Sharp and clear.
His hand rested on the hilt of Frost Born, already drawn the moment he had been dropped into the battlefield. The cold blade hummed faintly at his side, sensing its master's intent.
He scanned the area in silence.
A river flowed steadily beside him, the water clear, soft ripples dancing over its surface.
Around him stood scattered trees—tall and sparse, their roots half exposed as if torn by time, their leaves catching glints of sunlight as it filtered down in slivers.
The wind moved gently, brushing against the grass and bending the tall weeds. It wasn't thick woodland. Not quite a forest.
It was open. Wide.
A place meant for battle.
Crackle.
Azhriel's body dropped low in an instant—his instincts taking over before his mind could even process.
Zzzt!
A flash of purple lightning whistled through the space his head had occupied a heartbeat ago. It tore past him and slammed into the tree ahead.
