That morning, the Dragon's Spine Mountains offered no mercy. Thick fog shrouded the sharp peaks, and the wind carried a sharp ozone scent—a sign that a wild magic storm was forming to the north. Nihil stood at the edge of a flat cliff they were using as a temporary training ground, his Elven sword drawn.
Elara sat cross-legged on a large rock, reprogramming the crystal necklace they had taken from the Orc shaman. Lyraelle stood across from Nihil, her posture relaxed yet alert.
"Again," Nihil said, his voice flat.
Lyraelle attacked.
This time, she didn't use her full speed. She used technique. Her sword moved in an intricate River Style pattern, strikes that flowed like water but hit like waves.
Nihil saw the pattern. In his mind, he compared it to the data he had downloaded from the ancient swords in Silverwood. He knew theoretically how to counter it. He should step sideways, twist his sword to parry, and strike back at the ribs.
He moved.
