The wind stilled. We saw the Old Lark...
He stepped into the next battlefield, still clutching his snapped staff. His foot dragged in the ash. His face was creased with exhaustion, but his grin remained stitched in place like a scar that never healed. When he stepped towards the next battlefield, one vestige appeared from the smokes and blocked his
His opponent stood motionless.
A boy.
No older than thirteen but he was old than him. Just his appearance looked like that, barefoot, with skin like porcelain. His silver eyes reflected everything and nothing.
He had no shadow.
And time rippled near him like a fevered sea.
Aln. The Neverborn.
Lark clicked his tongue. "A child? Really? Bit cruel, even for war."
Aln blinked.
The earth under Lark's feet cracked.
Suddenly, the old man was flying backward, thrown by a pulse of raw force that hadn't even visibly moved. He crashed through a jagged rock spire and rolled to a stop in the dust.
