The alley's quiet hum was shattered by a sudden ripple of movement. A shadow detached itself from the far end of the street—tall, cloaked, face hidden behind a dark mask that gleamed faintly under the dim light. The figure moved with deliberate steps, slow but impossible to ignore.
Eryndor's body tensed instinctively. The sparks along his fingertips danced in anticipation, tiny arcs of lightning forming between them. The wind at his feet lifted slightly, almost as if responding to his heartbeat. He crouched, hands loose, eyes locked on the masked figure.
"You're persistent," Eryndor said, smirking arrogantly. "I hoped for a proper fight, but you keep hiding in shadows."
No reply came—just the soft rustle of the cloak and the faint metallic scrape of the mask as the figure tilted its head. Then, in a sudden blur, it lunged.
Eryndor barely had time to react. He pushed off the wall with a Pulse Step, sliding sideways as the figure's strike slammed into the stone behind him. Sparks flew where his fingers brushed the metal nearby, and instinctively, he let out a Lightning Thread, small arcs flicking toward the figure—but too weak to fully strike.
The masked figure's eyes—bright behind the mask—narrowed. It moved with speed that almost rivaled his own. But Eryndor grinned. This was exactly what he needed.
He tested the wind next, letting a subtle gust carry him forward, closing the distance in a flash. Gale Feint. The figure reacted, swinging again, but his movement was already misleading—a step forward, a step back, and then he was beside it.
His palm pressed lightly against the figure's shoulder. A faint shock surged through. Nerve Ignite. The figure staggered, muscles jerking unpredictably. Eryndor's grin widened, sparks trailing his hands.
"You're fast," the figure said, voice low and measured. "But you've barely begun."
Eryndor twirled lightly, letting the Pulse Step and wind combine to give him distance. Lightning arced along his arm, feeding into a small Arc Lash, the crackle snapping through the air. The figure jumped back, landing in a crouch, assessing him now with genuine caution.
This was it. His first combat outside, his first real test. And though his powers were new, raw, and unrefined, Eryndor felt alive—more alive than ever. The Lightning in his veins, the Wind at his feet, and the thrill of facing a worthy opponent—it was intoxicating.
"You want a fight?" he said, smirking. "Then let's see what lightning can do."
The street seemed to hum in anticipation. The first strike was about to fall.