Cliff emerged from the edge of the woods, his wings trailing faint sparks of energy as the shattered remains of his opponent's spear dragged behind him. His steps were heavy, his once-pristine tunic now torn and stained with blood—his own and that of his enemies. Yet his expression remained resolute, an unyielding glint in his eyes silencing the murmurs among the camp's soldiers.
Rakahn was the first to approach, his khopesh still dripping with the ichor of battle. His gaze briefly scanned Cliff, noting the cuts and bruises, before settling on the broken weapon in his hand.
"Is he dead?" Rakahn asked curtly.
Cliff tossed the remnants of the spear at Rakahn's feet. The fractured blade still radiated a sinister glow. "Not yet. But he won't be fighting anytime soon."
