Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.

Amari and Shylo struck in tandem—fast, focused, desperate. She dodged with uncanny precision, shifting her weight just enough to evade Amari’s blade as it whistled past her throat, then twisted as Shylo’s staff cracked toward her ribs. She caught the weapon mid-motion and spun Shylo off balance before launching a blistering kick into Amari’s chest.

He skids back, eyes flaring.

Shylo recovered—barely—and dropped into a low stance, aura beginning to hum around his fingers. His Unco, reactive and rhythm-based, flared brighter the more he synchronized with Amari. And Amari... was moving faster now. Not with brute strength—but clarity. His strikes weren’t wild. They were intentional. Calculated chaos.

She blocked a flurry of slashes, parried Shylo’s sweeping arc, and pivoted under a double-strike that should’ve floored anyone else. But she stayed fluid—like the fight hadn’t even begun to tire her.

Kael watched from the edge, arms crossed, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. His voice low:

"They’re trying."

Then louder, to the guardian: "Still playing?"

The woman—the royal guardian—smiled without warmth.

"They’re coordinated," she admitted, flicking her wrist to deflect a cross-punch from Amari and snapping Shylo’s ankle sweep with a single stomp. "But it’s not enough."

Amari’s heart pounded, mind clawing for escape routes. No cracks in the formation. No tunnel. No veil cover. Just soldiers closing in and a monster in front of them.

He ducked under a strike, swept his blade upward—missed. Shylo feinted left, aura flaring—and landed a direct hit to her shoulder. She blinked.

Then stopped smiling.