The moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver shards, painting the clearing in patches of pale light and deep shadow. Adam stood relaxed, hands loose at his sides, his crimson eyes tracking Seraphina's every movement.
"You can attack first," he offered, a hint of challenge in his voice.
Seraphina's blade whispered free of its sheath, the steel catching the moonlight like liquid silver. "Don't regret this."
She moved.
There was no flashy skill, no aura flare—just pure, disciplined swordsmanship honed over years of relentless practice. Her first strike was a textbook horizontal slash, aimed at Adam's ribs with perfect form and terrifying speed.
Adam didn't dodge. He wanted to measure her. His hand shot up, fingers closing around the blade—or trying to. At the last instant, dark scales rippled across his palm and forearm, the hardened surface grinding against Seraphina's edge with a harsh screech of metal on organic armor. Sparks flew.
CRUNCH-SHRIEK.
