The air in Crowmere is a knife. My weight and his edge grind against each other until the altar stone groans.
Roger turns his blade—not graceful, but stubborn. I answer in silence.
[DARK STINGER] → [GRAVITY SHEAR]
My fist drives at the center; his cut scrapes the edge. Black-silver sparks erupt. We break a handspan apart and re-enter. No wasted steps.
"For Elrodan," he mutters.
"For silence," I return.
He drags the oath into bone.
[OATHCUTTER – Inner Line] carves at the rim of my crown; Silent Crown tightens and creases.
I slot [Soul Clamp] into the seam—pinning the Domain so it can't split.
Noa's voice is flat from the gauntlet. "Silent Crown integrity -4%. Rim cracked; core stable. Recommend: strike frame, not blade."
I comply:
[FOREFIST PUNCH] into ribs → [KNEE DROP] to the thigh.
The shock travels through the plate. Roger's breath shortens, but his line holds. His return cut kisses skin—fine hairs on my horn lift.
Cathedral Gate
