Chapter 87: Father and Daughter: The Dance of Venom
My body was growing numb. Slowly. Insidiously. As if the universe itself sought to wrap me in an invisible shroud, woven of soft mist and icy chains. The wine, that nectar offered with an almost sacred tenderness, gradually weighed down my head—not with boisterous drunkenness, but with a subtle dizziness, as if each sip further diluted the contours of the world around me. And the poison... ah, the poison. It did not strike like an executioner. It crept in, subtle and patient, freezing my limbs with the precision of a cruel sculptor, erasing every sensation one by one, without ever breaking the rhythm of my breath.
And yet...
I was still dancing. Standing, staggering, but still standing. Beneath this starry sky, vast and indifferent, I let my slowly betrayed body continue its final steps—like a warrior refusing to fall before the last note, like a flame that flickers but refuses to die. The warm sand beneath my boots seemed to welcome me one last time, a silent accomplice to this suspended moment. Every star above, every speck of golden dust around me, bore witness to this silent resistance. And in this sway between the fall and pride, between paralysis and honor, I danced still.
Lysara struck with a restrained, almost sacred rage—a cold, disciplined anger, sculpted by months of training and accumulated silences. Her hammer traced blazing arcs through the air, each strike carving the void with lethal precision, as if she sought not just to win... but to etch into space the irrefutable proof of her superiority. The weapon sang, screamed, vibrated between her fingers, fueled by her fierce will. The metal ignited, living obsidian crackling with every movement, leaving behind trails of almost visible heat—like the remnants of a fire that refuses to die.
And I, facing this storm... I dodged.
Halfway.
Just enough.
Enough to survive, enough to watch. Each strike brushed past me too closely, hissing past my temples, biting the void a breath away from my skin. My wounded arm, still warm with blood, was slowly closing, with the silent obstinacy unique to my nature. My blood, capricious and ancient, refused to let weakness settle. My regeneration never slept. It devoured the pain like a starving beast, sealing the flesh as one shuts a door on a secret.
And yet, despite this strength, I could feel it—the slowing. My breath, usually so steady, so controlled, began to shorten, as if caught in an invisible vise. My movements, once sharp as thought, lost their clarity. I was still fast, yes. With a speed few could match. But I was no longer the wind. No longer that fleeting, elusive presence that tore through battles with a single step.
And yet...
I was still faster than her.