Brandon’s wrist flicked upward to deliver a second, decapitating strike.
The bloodstained broadsword sheared through the evening mist, whistling toward Elder Sterling’s exposed neck. The wounded elder fell back onto the gravel, clutching his severed shoulder veins, unable to lift his iron tally rod.
CLANG.
A shockwave of silver lightning ripped through the fog.
Sera Thorne appeared like a ghost between the two men. Her ancestral spear Storm-Pike met Brandon’s blade in a shower of blue sparks. The heavy iron broadsword recoiled violently, its tempered edge shuddering against the star-iron tip.
Brandon did not grunt or shift his balance. He was simply thrown backward six paces by the sheer kinetic force, his iron boots gouging two parallel furrows into the dirt.
Mina stepped up beside Sera, her eyes flashing with glacial light.
A wave of sub-zero chill rolled across the rocky path. The drops of blood falling from Brandon’s broadsword froze solid in mid-air, clattering onto the gravel as tiny crimson crystals. The young soldier stared at the frost on his iron boots, his expression completely blank.
