The battlefield crackled with tension, the air heavy with the aftermath of their previous clash. Sylas stood there, his breathing ragged, his flames having flickered into mere embers. His eyes burned with a fierce determination, and his grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.
A primal growl rose from deep within him, a manifestation of his frustration and desperation. And then, without warning, his sword seemed to come alive, the blade twisting and contorting as if guided by a will of its own. It spiraled around him in a frenzied dance, flames erupting anew along its length. Sylas's form was enveloped by the wild, untamed fire, his aura chaotic and feral.
With a guttural cry, Sylas surged forward, his movements a blur of fiery motion. His attacks were faster, more unpredictable, as if the feral fire within him had granted him a primal instinct that transcended logic. He lunged and twisted, his blade striking out in arcs of pure chaos.
