Lindarion moved like wind through water. His sword cut arcs of voidlight, each swing drawing thin streaks of shadow that bled into the green glow, nullifying it.
His eyes burned with calm gold, unflickering. His movements were not frantic; they were deliberate, patterned, a dance choreographed by instinct older than memory.
He didn't waste mana. Every stroke was efficient, every motion precise. When one guardian exploded, his blade was already cutting through the next. When one spear thrust for his heart, he turned slightly, letting the point slide past before severing the attacker's arm and head in the same movement.
Ashwing circled above, wings spread, his body cloaked in a faint shimmer of flame. "They just keep coming!" he called, voice echoing. "What are they guarding?!"
"Their failure," Lindarion replied evenly, pivoting to catch a descending strike. The clash threw sparks of white light. "And their guilt."
