"Oh," Selphine murmured. "Now he's interesting."
The illusion panned to a clearing strewn with broken branches and glimmering arcane traps—some half-spent, others ticking toward detonation. At its center, a young man towered over the chaos.
Bulky. Broad-shouldered. Arms like siege pulleys, bare to the elbow. His tunic was torn, soaked in sweat, and the axe in his hands was massive—worn, chipped at the edge, clearly used for more than show.
He moved with a brute's ease, but there was calculation in his rhythm. No wasted motion. Every step controlled. Every swing deliberate.
Two opponents circled him—one wielding twin short swords, the other casting mid-range kinetic bursts with precise, elegant gestures.
He didn't retreat.
He advanced.
A parry with the shaft of the axe. A sidestep that barely qualified as such. Then a low feint—and the blade came around, wide, cleaving through the first attacker's defense like parchment.
The second caster blinked backward.
Too slow.
