Lucan's final scream tore through the battlefield as he charged, his sword blazing with the remnants of his magic. His legs pushed him forward, even though they trembled under the weight of exhaustion. His heart pounded in his chest, louder than the clashing of steel and the cries of soldiers.
(One last strike...)
The world seemed to blur around him as he focused solely on Lyan. He could barely feel the burning heat of his enchanted sword, barely notice the weight of his armor. All he could see was Lyan, calm and poised, the massive glaive shimmering in the pale moonlight, waiting for him.
And then, in an instant, it was over.
Lyan moved. His glaive, with a single, graceful arc, sliced through the air faster than Lucan could process. Lucan's body, still in mid-stride, didn't even have a chance to react as the gleaming blade cleaved through him.
