The street around them was nearly unrecognizable now, buildings torn apart, stones cracked and smoking, scorch marks tangled with frostbite scars. Spectators, demonic soldiers, merchants, civilians, kept their distance but didn't flee, as if bound by some unspoken rule that witnessing this duel was as important as surviving it.
The saint's blade twitched.
Lindarion barely raised his own in time to catch the strike. The impact rattled his teeth, and before he could steady himself, the saint spun with inhuman precision, bringing the sword around in a low arc that nearly took Lindarion's legs from under him.
He jumped, not up, but forward, into the saint's space.
Fire roared from his boots, propelling him just enough to twist and drive his shoulder into the demon's chest. At the same instant, a jagged spear of ice erupted from his free hand, aimed directly for the saint's face.
