Lucas was being pushed back again.
Not in distance alone, but in control, in presence, in the very flow of the battle that had once briefly tilted in his favor. Every movement he made now was measured, cautious, his spatial distortions keeping him alive but failing to impose any real threat, and Dravok had already recognized it, already begun to capitalize on it with a cold and methodical precision that left little room for recovery.
The wind howled sharper.
Each blade carried intent, each strike placed to corner, to cut, to break him down piece by piece until there was nothing left to resist.
Suddenly the air changed.
A disruption in flow.
Dravok's next wave of wind blades surged forward toward Lucas, fast and lethal as before.
But something intercepted them.
The blades faltered mid-flight.
Their trajectory bent, then they scattered.
Lucas's eyes widened slightly as he shifted away from the disrupted attack, his focus snapping toward the source instantly.
The Ice Belle.
