Elara stepped forward into the dim battlefield, shadow flames dancing across her limbs.
The figure before her drew a blade that seemed to drink the light around it,
its edge gleaming like liquid night.
The first strike came swift and merciless, but Elara twisted, shadow-fire flickering as she moved.
She retaliated with a surge of darkness, each swing cutting through the air like a storm of obsidian shards.
Her opponent adapted, moving with uncanny precision,
but Elara's mind was clear. She was no longer just reacting;
she was in command—every shadow at her command, every movement measured.
The clash rang through the void: metal against shadow, sparks igniting into phantom flames.
Pain stabbed her arms and back, but she embraced it, letting it fuel her movements.
Finally, she concentrated all her shadow energy into one decisive strike.
The adversary staggered, then dissolved into black mist, absorbed by the void itself.
Breathing heavily, Elara stood alone amidst the settling shadows,
aware that true power was not in annihilation—it was mastery over oneself,
even when wielding the darkest forces.