Lysandra's breath spilled into the night air in a thin white cloud as she turned fully toward him. The snow around them muted every sound, turning the forest edge into a silent, frozen arena.
"Ready, little brother?" she repeated, her tone a soft taunt beneath the falling flakes.
Trafalgar didn't answer immediately. He lifted his right hand instead, letting mana surge through his fingers. Shadows rippled around his palm, twisting and folding inward until a blade materialized—Maledicta, cold and hungry, settling into his grip with a familiar weight.
His expression remained flat. "Ready," he said. A slight smirk ghosted across his lips. "You, dear sister?"
Lysandra's eyes gleamed. She raised her hand in a smooth motion, and a pillar of pale mana coiled upward like a ribbon of moonlight. When it cleared, her white longsword rested in her grasp—radiant, pure, and frighteningly sharp. The air around it hummed with pressure.
The moment she shifted her stance, Trafalgar felt it.
