The air inside the parade ground split open with the high-pitched screech of tearing metal as the Ashen Legate's greatsword descended.
The ten-foot commander did not merely swing a piece of steel. It brought down a concentrated pillar of compressed, violent volcanic lightning. The blade left a trailing scar of blinding purple arcs and black spatial heat in its wake, accelerating so fast that the damp, ash-choked atmosphere ignited into a localized firestorm before the blow even reached waist height.
Kyle did not leap backward into the wet courtyard, nor did he call upon Seraphina or Falcon to intercept the strike.
He stood his ground, his dark boots rooted to the wet iron-wood floor. As the gargantuan greatsword came down, Kyle shifted his left leg back six inches, aligning his weight, and raised his pitch-black demon gauntlet at a sharp, forty-five-degree angle.
