The world narrowed until there was nothing left but steel and shadow. The screams of dying men, the clash of shield-walls breaking, the thunder of horns—all of it dulled to a distant echo as Ryon met the Wraith-knight stroke for stroke.
Its blade was hunger given form, shrieking through the air with each swing, a sound that seemed to tear marrow from bone. Every strike came heavier, faster, as though the knight were drawing strength from the slaughter all around them. Sparks burst in dull gray flares each time their swords met, falling like ashes onto the blood-slick ground.
Ryon's lungs burned with every breath. His side was wet with blood where the knight's edge had carved him earlier. His shoulders ached as if molten iron had been poured into his muscles. But his grip did not loosen. He forced his will into the steel, forced his body to obey though it screamed rebellion with every movement.
