The clash was a blur of steel, fur, and shouts. Spears drove in, deflected by sword or shattered by fan ribs; snow churned into red slush beneath stamping boots.
Ruo Han kept close to Xiyue's flank, using every opening his Alpha's blade created — until a wall of armored riders pressed between them.
Xiyue: "Stay with me!"
But the line closed like a trap.
Ling Han cut through his own men, glaive whirling, parting them just long enough to seize Ruo Han's wrist. The movement was smooth, practiced — as if he'd been waiting for this moment all along.
Ruo Han: "Let go!"
Ling Han: "You don't belong in his shadow."
Xiyue saw it — the black-and-scarlet figure hauling Ruo Han backward toward a waiting mount — and his breath turned sharp. He tore through the riders in his path, blade leaving silver arcs in the air.
Too slow.
The horse reared, hooves smashing ice, and Ling Han swung into the saddle with Ruo Han pinned before him.
Xiyue lunged, sword raised — but a spear butt slammed into his ribs, knocking him sideways into the snow. By the time he rolled to his feet, the Iron Fang Battalion was already riding for the far mouth of the gorge, Ling Han's gaze locked on him until the fog swallowed them whole.
Only the thunder of hooves and the red streak on the snow where Ruo Han's fan had fallen remained.