Caelan moved.
His entire being compressed into the tip of his sword, sword intent and mana fusing into something that existed halfway between technique and philosophy. Each thrust released a concentrated burst of that fusion—small, precise, devastatingly fast.
The first burst came before Kael could blink. A point of white light, expanding into a razor-thin line that carved through the air toward his throat.
Kael's blade came up.
Slaughter intent flooded into the dark steel. Over three months of training the intent had taught Kael one truth: he couldn't match Yenna's precision or Caelan's decade of refinement. But what his intent lacked in elegance, it compensated for in raw, brutal depth. It was the difference between a scalpel and a sledgehammer. Both could kill. One just made a bigger mess.
