The howling mountain gale tore across the flattened stone plain, whipping fine grey ash and pulverized bone-dust into the freezing draft.
Beyond the crystalline boundary of the Sanatan Flame Sect, the world had been sheared down to a flat, barren wasteland of cracked granite. Only the single, jagged peak of the sect remained standing tall, nestled safely beneath the golden dome of its celestial formation.
Across the grey stone, forty paces apart, the two figures stood locked in silence.
Shaurya's chest heaved like a broken bellows, pulling freezing mountain air into his bruised lungs. Dark crimson trickled steadily from his hairline, tracing a warm, slick path down his temple and jaw before dripping onto the ruined collar of his black coat. His right arm hung slightly limp, fingers trembling under the crushing strain of the previous impacts.
