The sound of steel clashing and the eruption of mana surrounded them, but in that raging torrent of chaos, Moore and Luenor stood before each other, eyes focused and intent.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Snow fell around them, every flake catching the dim blue glow that now encased Luenor's sword.
Moore studied him. This boy was no older than thirteen. The name, "Sureva," kept repeating in his mind like half-remembered dream. "Sureva..." he said. "The name of a fallen duchy. I had heard of it... but never thought to see it worn by a child."
Luenor remained quiet. He only raised his sword higher, as the mana of the forest began to whisper around him. The vibrant blue light flowed around the blade as if attracting the very breath of the world itself, swirling and crackling softly as it coursed toward and blended with the magical energy emanating from Luenor.
Moore narrowed his eyes. "A boy with the mana of the forest," he said lightly. "Impressive... but a child's strength is a child's strength."
He drew his sword. The steel hummed with the steady pulse of his internal mana heart. A thin strip of golden light washed along the edge. Calm, measured, lethal.
They collided with each other at once.
Luenor struck first, faster than Moore anticipated, the blade glowing that eerily bright blue. Moore countered, with a grunt, the sword twisting to take the blow. Sparks flew as their mana met, ringing off the sharp note toward the cold gray sky.
Luenor slipped across the snow, though he still moved forward with both eyes steady. Each swing absorbed the mana between them, and with each breath, the blue would even brighten. The forest seemed to lean in as if giving him strength.
But Moore was a born and trained knight. He shifted his weight, every motion precise, everything he blocked led to an attempted counter in a smooth motion. His sword was not just a shield, nor a spear, but arcs that contained a calmness forcing Luenor at bay one careful step backward.
"You are strong," Moore spoke, his breath controlled, as he forced Luenor's sword aside, "Strong for a boy. But even wild sprouts must be cut before they grow tall."
He lunged, his mana heart flaring with raw power. There was a golden arc of light thrumming in his sword as it smashed through Luenor's guard causing the boy to stumble backward from the weight.
Luenor gasped, his arms trembling, breaths ragged. But he did not give up--he dug deeper into himself, gained a sense of the forest around him--old roots, the quiet life underneath the snow. Mana poured into him, quicker than he could realistically handle, but he held it, took it, visualized it surging into his blade.
They clashed once more, steel singing in the snow-dimmed light.
Then a third presence entered the fray.
A man in a cloak walked calmly into the battle, staff glowing with ancient runes that raised above him, as if the staff moved on its own. The forest itself seemed to shudder in response to the raised staff, the world held its breath, and felt oddly unsettled, as if something so ancient yet familiar were awakening.
Roots shot from the frozen ground, thick and warped like dead fingers, twisted and tangled like gouging talons, around the legs of knights and mages indistinguishable---lashing, clamping--grabbing. Moore shouted, cutting and cutting with his sword as they caged him. But the roots kept growing back, faster than he could attack.
Then Luenor saw it, the weakness that lasted only one heartbeat. He surged his weight toward the knight again. His blade was low and quick. He drove the glowing blue tip into Moore's back.
Moore let out a sharp gasp, eyes wide. He fell to his knees as his sword was snatched from his grip by the roots that tightened around him again.
The knights and mages stared in horror as Moore dropped to his knees, gasping, blood pooling around the wound in his back. The elven archers readied their bows while the trees almost seemed to creep forward, roots curling like the fingers of an angry god.
The soft sound of swords falling from trembling hands broke the silence. Swords clanged against frostbitten ground and the mages lowered their staves, mana flickering and dying in their hands.
"We... we surrender," a mage said, voice hoarse, never breaking his stare from the silent, still Luenor with his sword glowing faintly with blue light.
Luenor's green eyes shifted to Moore as the older knight struggled to raise his head. Moore's voice was quiet but hard. "You think this victory? The Marquis won't ignore this. He will come... and he will kill Alfrenzo. He will kill you all."
Luenor let a quiet laugh escape his lips. It was soft yet sharp like winter air. "Alfrenzo is going to confront the Marquis himself," he said with calm and confidence. "The forest will make sure of it."
Moore frowned. "What... what do you mean, 'rest in pieces'?"
Luenor gave him a small smile, almost pitying. "You'll see."
Then he turned and walked away, boots silent on the snow, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
The knights remained frozen as Valdrak emerged from the shadows. The massive head of the white tiger lowered, jaws opening to reveal teeth as long as a man's forearm, breath steaming in the cold.
Moore's eyes grew wide as the man-tooth tiger loomed over him, blue eyes glinting with cold, animal intelligence. "No--wait--"
His words ended with a slosh into a single wet snap as Valdrak's jaws closed around him; the sound echoing in the silent forest. The tiger lifted his head, Moore's blood steaming in the freezing air, and turned back to the waiting trees.
The knights and mages who had dropped their weapons fell to their knees, their faces pale with horror. Luenor stepped forward, his voice low and calm. "Loot the fallen," he said simply. "And take these prisoners back to Eclion."