Draven's breath left his lungs in a slow hiss, thin as mist on cold metal.
He let the exhalation steady his pulse, then raised the longblade in a single, unhurried arc.
The sword caught what little light seeped through the Grove's canopy—lambent greens, sickly violets—until the alloy shimmered like moon-water swirling over oil.
That shifting gleam always unsettled onlookers; today it unsettled only the clearing itself.
Roots shivered and clacked beneath the moss, as though remembering an ancient agreement not to interfere.
His grip remained deceptively loose.
Subtle muscle twitches rolled under the glove—index finger sliding half a grain, middle finger tightening just enough to adjust torque.
Every micro-correction said the same thing: this blade would travel only where his will demanded, not one millimeter farther.
Draven's eyes, pale and sharp as split quartz, never left the formless silhouette hovering in front of him.
The shadow-demon broke first.
