The prince tightened his grip on his radiant golden sword, the faint hum of mana vibrating through the air. His gaze sharpened — calculating, imperial — before he lunged.
The first strike came from the left, a clean horizontal slash fast enough to whistle. Theo raised his right arm almost lazily, palm open. The blade froze midair — not because it had stopped, but because space itself refused to let it move any further. The air rippled, faint light distorting around Theo's hand.
Without pause, the prince twisted his wrist, bringing the sword down vertically in a brutal overhead swing. The sound split the air — KRRANG! — yet again, the edge halted inches from Theo's skull, the distortion shimmering between them like heat waves over a desert.
