Thorny vines writhed around the elf's projection, crimson running where barbs bit.
The demon paired the image with a high overhead slash, hoping shock would freeze reflexes.
Draven's hands moved faster than thought, sword up to meet blade, sparks skittering across steel.
Left boot slid forward at an odd angle, ankle turning sharply so heel dug and redirected force.
Momentum spiraled into the earth instead of through his spine.
He twisted, forcing the demon's sword down, then slashed across the vines binding the illusion.
Vaelarien's phantom unraveled, strands of thorn recoiling like severed nerves.
A pained shimmer crossed the demon's torso, as though invisible sutures tore wider.
Its twin blades drooped, edges dulling.
The clearing's mist retreated, fleeing back into deeper brush.
Draven inhaled again, slower now.
No smoke. No screams. Just the ragged cadence of a creature running out of fuel.
