That same disciple had once traded blows with Jared, enough to know the man alone could never topple a sovereign, not even Esorin. Which meant someone, hidden, potent, stood behind Jared, lending him the kind of power stories whisper about.
If Myles ever crossed that person backing Jared, he would be marching straight to his grave. What they needed now was patience, investigation, not open combat. But Myles refused counsel, insisting on hounding Jared, and there was nothing the lower-ranked runner could do to stop him.
Jared waited alone in the wasteland between moments, a barren pocket of torn space where even sound seemed exiled. Only the stray wind stirred, fluttering the corner of his coat.
The Dragonslayer Sword rested in his clenched hand while his eyes swept the nothingness, alert for the allies the Nethergate Sect had promised. Fate, however, loved its little jokes.
A pressure rolled toward him, violent as a typhoon. The instant it touched his skin he felt the malice coiled inside it and knew: the Malevolent Path Hall. Only they hated him that much.
Myles appeared first, striding from the gloom with four shades at his heels, each movement as silent as candle smoke. His posture was ramrod straight, the sword over his shoulder shining a glacial blue that seemed to slice the darkness by simply existing.
Behind him, the four black-cloaked subordinates showed only eyes, cold, narrow slits that watched Jared the way wolves study a wounded stag.
“So, you‘re Jared Chance?” Myles asked, his words sliding across the void like drawn steel.
Myles’ voice drifted across the battlefield like wind leaking from an ice cellar, low, detached, and deathly cold. The mere sound of it pricked the skin the way frost bites fingers left too long in winter air.
Jared’s heartbeat lurched, yet his face never showed it. He straightened, shoulders squared, and met that chill voice with one of iron. “That’s right… The Malevolent Path Hall has hounded me again and again. What trouble have you brought today?”
Myles let his lips curl, a smile that carried neither warmth nor humor. “Trouble? I came to collect your life, Chance, to avenge the Grand Elder and Lord Ashcroft.”
He flicked his wrist. A silver-blue blade of sword energy cracked from the tip of his weapon and tore through the night like lightning freed from a storm cloud.
Jared pivoted just in time. The crescent of light scraped the edge of his tunic and seared a jagged scar into the empty air behind him.
Inside, awe swelled. One casual slash and the pressure alone felt as heavy as a mountain.
Myles Moffat is no ordinary foe…
“Is that the best you can muster?” Jared barked, refusing to give an inch.
The Dragonslayer Sword quivered in his grip. A golden arc burst skyward, then plummeted toward Myles in a shining counter-stroke.
Myles barely tilted his sword. Jared’s gilded strike scattered into harmless sparks, the fragments snuffed out before they could reach him.
In the same breath, Myles vanished and reappeared a breath away. Steel drove forward with thunder’s weight, a straight thrust aimed for Jared’s heart.
The speed stunned Jared, too fast to sidestep cleanly.
He twisted, sparing his vitals, yet metal still kissed flesh. A deep line split his shoulder. Blood blossomed, soaking cloth in crimson seconds. Scarlet dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Pain flared, but so did fury, bright as forged iron.
Retreat was gone, washed away the moment steel touched skin. Only one road remained, fight until either night or heartbeat ended.
A sudden whistle cut through the dark. Black light streaked overhead, landing in sparks before the two combatants.
A woman clad in midnight stepped from that comet trail, ten men in white fanning out behind her.
She moved like a reed in storm water, supple yet unbreakable. Cold beauty framed her features; ebony hair lifted and fell with the night breeze like ink spilled into sky.
In her right hand coiled a jet-black whip, its length flickering with a ghostly sheen that promised hidden, lethal power.
