The force of Mathew James's strike still crackled through the smashed clearing, broken trees smoking and soil split open in uneven spots.
Warriors from both clans had been thrown back, some clutching wounds from flying debris, others staring in disbelief at the devastation.
And yet, Robert Osborn stood untouched. His blades were crossed before him, steady, his breathing even. It was not his strength that had withstood the blow.
A far heavier aura pressed down behind him.
Robert's eyes widened as he turned. His father was there, John Osborn standing tall, his great sword braced against the fading crimson arc of Mathew's attack. Sparks still hissed from the clash, the sword trembling in his grip, but John's face was unforgiving.
"You will not touch my son," John said, his voice like iron grinding on iron.
With a sudden push, he sent the remnants of the attack scattering harmlessly into the ground, where they burned themselves out against the trees.
