Viks's fingers tightened around her sword hilt, the silver aura around her blazing brighter, sharper, as if the blade itself was eager for blood.
"I'll kill you."
She surged forward.
Isolde's blood blade swept up to meet her—steel clashing against hardened crimson in a shower of sparks and dark spray. The vampire's lips curved into a cold smile.
"I'll start with you, then."
She pressed the attack, her blade driving Viks back with the force of her strikes. The first cut—a diagonal slash aimed at Viks's shoulder—was deflected. The second came from the side, faster than the first, and Viks twisted, her own blade catching the edge inches from her ribs.
She didn't retreat. She counterattacked.
Her sword swept toward the gap in Isolde's guard—the space between her blade and her body, the moment between strikes. The edge bit into the vampire's side, shallow but real, and Isolde's eyes widened.
"Persistent," Isolde hissed, retreating a step.
