The air twisted.
The updrafts, heated by bursts of black flames, mingled with the icy coolness of altitude. Each beat of Maélor's wings shook the atmosphere like a thunderclap. Mordred's translucent and nervous mana feathers vibrated with such condensed energy that they left in their wake a scent of storm.
They were no longer fighting above the palace. They were fighting above the world.
Maélor turned his head slightly, following Mordred with his gaze. His slit pupils adjusted to every movement like a predator assessing the perfect trajectory. The black blood flowing down his thigh scattered into fine droplets, tracing behind him a wake of wounds.
Mordred, for his part, advanced. His fingers clenched around the handle of his katana did not tremble, but his arms were heavy, burning. Each breath cost him. He knew he was playing against time: against a dragon-king, the slightest slowdown, the slightest hesitation would be his end.
