The cold air clung to their clothes as Trafalgar and Lysandra stepped out of the treeline and into the mansion's garden. Snow coated the marble path in a thin, untouched layer, muffling every footstep. Behind them, the forest where they had just fought lay silent again, as if it had swallowed all traces of their clash.
Trafalgar loosened his grip on Maledicta; the blade dissolved into black motes of mana, fading back into his system inventory with a faint shimmer. Lysandra did the same—her white longsword broke apart in a swirl of pale light, scattering like fragments of moon dust before vanishing completely. The cold bit harder without the lingering warmth of combat.
Lysandra exhaled, turning to face him. "Well," she murmured, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, "that was refreshing. You've improved. A lot."
