|¬Antistrofí. ¬|
For a split second, Duskhand faltered. He had no idea what language Arthur had spoken, and neither did he know what command it carried.
Suddenly using another language confused him just enough to delay his reaction but while the word was foreign to Duskhand, its power was unmistakable. The frozen spear projectiles reversed their course, shooting back toward their creator.
By the time he realized what had happened, it was too late. Duskhand was forced to block his own attacks, slashing through the air with his spear to deflect the projectiles.
Arthur followed the returning projectiles, and just as Duskhand swatted away the last of the projectiles, Arthur was upon him, sword raised high. Their blades clashed once more, the force of their collision sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.
