Xalvar staggered, blood pouring freely from the gashes Hiro had carved into him, his breaths coming in ragged snarls. His once-proud wings, torn and slick with his own corrupted ichor. Yet his eyes still burned with defiance, unwilling to bow even in defeat.
"You think… you've won?" he rasped, coughing up more black blood. His rusted sword trembled in his grip, cracks spreading across its corrupted surface from the strain of their prolonged battle. "Even if I fall here… Lord Aamon's will… will not be denied."
Hiro's chest heaved, his own wounds screaming in protest. He could feel his muscles fraying, his veins alight with unbearable fire from forcing his skills beyond their limit. His hands nearly shook off his sword, yet he raised it again, steadying it with every ounce of will he possessed.
"This ends… now."
