The assault never truly stopped.
The sea does not rest.
To Nerys, the ocean was not merely terrain or weapon. It was an extension of herself. Every pulse of water was will, every wave a decision made without hesitation. So when she chose to press Sofia, that pressure did not arrive as a single overwhelming burst, but as an unbroken continuity with no gaps.
Wave after wave crashed down.
Not always massive. Not always spectacular. But constant. Blades of water struck from impossible angles. Liquid spears erupted from beneath the sand. Small vortices formed in the air, collapsed, and slammed downward in vertical blows that forced Sofia to roll, leap, or parry on instincts that were growing thinner by the second.
Sofia's breathing grew heavier.
Every breath felt like swallowing saltwater. The arm gripping her spear began to tremble, not from fear, but from pure exhaustion. The protective light surrounding her body flickered not broken, but clearly worn down.
She endured.
