Elysia's clone did not pause. Her sword came again, and this time the lightning around it changed. White. Silent. Deadly.
Nero barely saw the strike coming. His body moved on instinct, his own lightning flaring, but the white blade passed through his guard and opened a gash across his ribs before he could react. No sound. No warning. Just pain, sudden and deep.
He retreated, his hand pressing against the wound, blood hot between his fingers. The clone's eyes were empty, her sword already rising for another strike. She had been holding back. Now she was not.
White lightning gathered at the edge of her blade, pale as bone, quiet as a held breath. She moved, and this time Nero was ready. He did not try to block. He could not hear the strike, could not track it by sound. He watched her shoulder, the subtle shift of weight, the angle of her wrist. He moved before the blade came, his own golden lightning carrying him sideways.
