Arc 3: Chapter 21: Clash of Two Devils
I flew into action without hesitation. I had no banter in me, no witty remarks. I knew that my only chance lay in decisive, brutal action.
So I shaped an Art, feeling warmth bloom in my chest as my aura reworked itself in response to my will. I made my spirit sharp as a keen blade, hard as an iron bough. Amber light bloomed inside Rose Malin, clashing with the island of red concentrated around Kross.
I slammed one boot down on the ground, and the air rippled around it like a mirage of disturbed water. Around me, the phantasm of my Soul Art took shape, forming into the image of gilt antlers, the crown of a charging stag. I lifted my axe up, resting it on one shoulder, and lunged forward.
That single step carried me nearly thirty feet in the blink of an eye. I glided forward more than I ran or leapt, the edges of my bloodred cloak chased with aureflame.
Behind me, a hammer of solid cold slammed down into the spot I’d been standing. I felt it against my back. Had I been even an instant slower, Kross’s Art would have hit me.
Without so much as an eye blink, Kross stood his ground. I felt a shudder in the air, like the whole world trembled a moment with an unsettling thought. An instant before I would have struck him with all the force of a battering ram hurled by a giant’s hand, invisible force slapped me, a backhand so fast and violent my magic shattered into useless gilded glass.
I went flying back, hit the ground once in a painful roll, and managed to slam the sharp wedge on the back of my axe’s blade into the rich mosaic floor. My axe carved a dimly glowing line into the stone for seven feet before I’d managed to slide to a stop.
I glared up at the gray-cloaked man from my crouch, letting out an amber-misted breath.
“Vicar,” I snarled.
“Such anger!” The crowfriar laughed. “That was the Eardeking’s Lance, was it not? I admit, I’ve seen few of the Alder’s techniques in person.”
He slid his plain sword from its sheath then, swiping it to one side. With my aura burning, I began to make out the phantasmal shape of the being who clung to him — a cold angel with four great wings feathered with what looked like icy glass, its arms wrapped around Kross’s unadorned breastplate. It would have been beautiful, only the eyes peering at me over the crowfriar’s shoulder were piercing and cruel.