Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
While in other parts of the Central Node, Heralds exchanged devastating blows, the duel between Mirza and Arannis resembled a clash between an enraged cliff and an elusive whirlwind. Arannis did not touch the floor; he floated a meter above the obsidian slabs, his ironwood armor vibrating faintly, tuning itself to the frequency of the surrounding air.
"You are too slow for this place," the Sylvan sang, and his voice, amplified by the Spirit of the Storm Wind, struck the Orc's ears like a physical shove.
Arannis raised his flute to his lips and produced a short, sharp note. "Spirit of the Storm Wind: Thousand Needles."
The air before the Sylvan instantly crystallized into hundreds of tiny vacuum arrows. They shot forward, cutting through space with a whistle that made the mirrored fragments on the floor shatter. This was an attack not aimed at destroying armor, but at piercing the enemy's body in dozens of places simultaneously.
Mirza did not try to dodge. He merely spread his legs wider, and his huge cleaver sunk into the floor, serving as an additional support. The ritual scars on his body flared with a dull grey light. "Blessing of the Granite Guardian," the Orc boomed.
His skin momentarily acquired the texture of unworked stone. Arannis's invisible needles shattered against Mirza's body with a dry crack, leaving only small white dots. Not one managed to pierce the Herald's density.
However, Arannis did not intend to limit himself to a frontal attack. Seizing the moment Mirza was momentarily stationary, the Sylvan made a lightning-fast maneuver. Using air currents as levers, he executed a steep arc and ended up behind the Orc. His curved blades flared with emerald light.
"Art of the Cut: Whisper of the Storm," Arannis whispered.
He delivered a series of lightning-fast strikes. Mirza only managed to turn halfway. One of the emerald blades slid along his side, cutting through his thick skin and leaving a deep wound. The Orc's blood, thick and dark, spattered on the obsidian. Arannis immediately flew back, not allowing the enemy a chance to counterattack.
Mirza touched the wound on his side and looked at his bloodied fingers. In his amber eyes, there was no fury—only the cold, calculating excitement of a predator who had finally found worthy prey.
"Good..." he rumbled. "Your wind can bite. But you forget, Sylvan: for wind to have power, it needs something to push off from. And I am that which you will push off from before you fall."
The light on the Orc's body shifted from grey to a bright yellow, reminiscent of the midday sun in the desert. "Blessing of the Swift Hunter."
Mirza lunged forward. His speed at that moment was such that even Arannis momentarily lost sight of him. The giant cleaver traced an arc in the air, and the Sylvan barely managed to raise his blades in a defensive position. A deafening clang sounded. Arannis was thrown back, and only his ability to manipulate the air allowed him to level his flight, avoiding crashing into the wall.
The Sylvan raised his flute to his lips again, his fingers dancing over the instrument's holes. The melody became fast and aggressive. "Sound Wave: Resonance of the Void!"
An invisible sphere of compressed sound rolled through the hall. The inner energy of every Warrior within a thirty-meter radius momentarily destabilized, making people fall to their knees. Mirza felt his own channels begin to vibrate, threatening to rupture. But the Orc only clenched his teeth tighter, his Vessel, hardened by decades of battle, withstood the blow.
Mirza broke through the sound wave, closing the distance. His cleaver descended upon Arannis with the force capable of splitting the foundation of a pyramid. The Sylvan managed to create a vacuum shield, but the Orc's power was too great. The shield burst, and Arannis took a heavy flat blow to his ribs. His ironwood armor cracked, and the Sylvan Herald himself crashed to the floor, plowing furrows in the obsidian slabs.
"Your Spirit is beautiful, but it lacks weight," Mirza loomed over him, his shadow blocking the light of the constellations on the dome.
Arannis struggled to rise, wiping green blood from his lips. He saw that Mirza was only just warming up. His energy was deep and inexorable, like time itself. The Sylvan understood that in a direct confrontation, he would lose. His blades were sharp, but the Orc's Vessel was too dense.
The battle in the Central Node continued, but here, in the duel of wind and earth, the scales began to slowly tip in Mirza's favor. Weakened but still deadly, Arannis began to prepare his next maneuver, understanding that the next minute could decide everything.