Elven Varn stood straighter now, one hand pressing to the wound in his side.
Blood darkened the black of his coat. He looked at Auren and Serai—one bruised and panting, the other wild-eyed and burning.
He gave a small nod.
Then spoke.
"I misjudged you both."
His voice wasn't angry.
It was calculating. Cold. Focused.
"But no more."
He reached to his back—slowly, deliberately—and unsheathed his blade.
Steel sang against its scabbard. It wasn't ornate. It wasn't long. But it gleamed with the clarity of a weapon meant only to kill.
"The Blood Style," he said, lifting it, "has no wasted movement."
He lowered into a stance—blade forward, centerline guarded.
"Form One-Split."
He moved.
Auren barely had time to duck. The blade sliced air where his neck had been.
Serai rolled sideways, unarmed, her foot skidding in wet grass.
Varn stepped again.
"Form Two-Cleave"
The slash came faster. Auren threw up his arms—blocked with bone and instinct.
Steel met flesh.
Blood sprayed.
Auren screamed. His left forearm split wide.
He stumbled.
Serai lunged forward. Tried to feint low, strike high.
Varn caught her wrist mid-swing and spun her over his shoulder.
She hit the ground hard, wind knocked out of her.
Auren's vision blurred.
He dropped to one knee.
Cuts across his side. His shoulder. His thigh. Blood dripping into the earth like ink.
Elven stood above him again.
A single breath away.
Then—
A voice.
Not in the air.
Not outside.
Inside his mind.
The Wazir.
Silk and storm.
"Do you want to win?"
Auren didn't move.
Didn't answer.
But the thread between him and Serai throbbed.
"Then give her what she craves."
"Not what you feel. What she's reaching for."
"What she's begging the world to allow."
The air tightened.
Auren raised his head.
He saw her—not on the ground. Not hurt.
He saw her future.
The thread blazed between them.
And what he pulled—
Wasn't love.
Wasn't hope.
Wasn't grief.
It was Rage.
Pure. Controlled. World-breaking.
He didn't push it into her.
He unleashed it.
And the world inhaled—
Hard.