The battlefield was held at a standstill the moment the Silver Sword Saint unsheathed his blade.
No movement could be made under the mesmerizing beauty of the moonlight reflecting off the weapon's flawless surface. The very light seemed drawn to it, bending, shimmering, and dancing along the metal as though it, too, had fallen under a spell. Even the sounds of nature—the wind, the rustling leaves, the chirps of distant insects, seemed to hush in reverence or fear.
Only one person managed to remain unfazed, and that was Markis.
Without hesitation, he raised a hand and summoned his power, weaving a blindfold of tree bark over his eyes. It wrapped around his head like it had grown there, slightly cracked yet smooth like the skin of an ancient tree. The silence was finally broken by his voice.
"Izikel," he called, gently placing the unconscious Lyzah beside the stunned boy.
