WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The two elven elders fighting in the sky above Silverwood suddenly disengaged. The one battling King Alaric—a master of earth rule power—had underestimated the Britannian King's light-speed attacks. A searing golden slash had carved through his shoulder, severing his left arm cleanly.
SPLURT! Blood sprayed into the air.
"Elder Thorne!" the wind elder screamed, his eyes widening in horror.
"We're retreating! Now!" Elder Thorne roared, clutching his bleeding stump. His aura flickered weakly as he channeled his remaining mana into a desperate escape technique. FZZZZT! A massive gust of wind erupted, sweeping both elders backward toward the distant capital of Sylvaneth.
Bjorn lunged to pursue, but Alaric raised a hand. "Let them run. We have the city already."
Bjorn and Alaric didn't pursue. They turned their attention to the city below.
The City of Silverwood.
