Time stretched.
Their bodies no longer truly obeyed them. Every movement had become an automatism etched into their muscles by years of combat. Mordred dodged a claw aimed at his neck—not because he had seen it coming, but because his left shoulder had moved on its own, recognizing the deadly whistle in the air. Maelor parried an elbow strike aimed at his ribs—not through calculation, but because his forearm had risen by reflex, guided by millennia of survival instinct.
They no longer thought. They fought.
Exhaustion had swept everything away.
Pain had become a constant background noise, like the buzzing of an insect one stops hearing. Wounds accumulated: Mordred's blood flowed from a cut above his eye, blurring his vision. Three of his ribs were cracked, each breath was torture. Maelor dragged his right leg, one of his wings hung askew, yet his claws continued to strike with mechanical precision.
They advanced.
