The clash on the other side of the city had already reached its climax.
Celine stood atop the broken corpse of the masked Harpist, her chest heaving, her silver hair whipped into disarray by the lingering storm of energy that had accompanied their duel. Around her, the battlefield was unrecognizable. Streets had collapsed into themselves. Stone buildings had been reduced to heaps of rubble. Smoke rose in coils, blotting the edges of the crimson moonlight. The very air felt scorched, still trembling as though the echoes of the Harpist's music lingered long after the strings had gone silent.
