Gavriel charged.
His green-wrapped blade arced toward the Dark Fae's neck. The swing was fast, trained, carrying the muscle memory of a man whose combat scores had been the highest in his graduating class.
The Dark Fae dodged. Smooth. Effortless. His body moving with a fluidity that said he had been fighting Fae opponents for longer than Gavriel had been alive and had stopped finding their speed impressive several decades ago.
Gavriel adjusted. Swung again. Horizontal. Low. Aiming for the ribs.
Dodged.
Third swing. Overhead. Both hands on the hilt. Full power, green magic blazing along the blade so bright the storm clouds reflected emerald.
The Dark Fae lifted one hand. Dark magic wrapped Gavriel's blade, coiled around the steel, and RIPPED it from his grip. The sword tumbled into the clouds and vanished.
Gavriel's hands were empty.
