The moonlit field was a canvas of desolation. The ruined farmhouse stood as a silent, skeletal witness to the power about to be unleashed.
Alaric and Zylle Mordan faced each other across the shallow crater they had created, their Archmage auras warping the very air around them.
Zylle's was a vortex of oppressive shadow and angry violet lightning. Alaric's was a calm, crushing pressure of pure azure might.
"No interruptions," Alaric repeated, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his handsome face. "Just you and me, Zylle. Let's see what Lord Vortan's top dog is really made of."
"You will choke on those words, Steele," Zylle snarled, her professional mask completely gone, replaced by a cold, murderous fury. She knew, with chilling certainty, that this was no longer a negotiation or a simple power play. This was a battle for her pride, her loyalty, and perhaps, her very soul.
