Cealsen's eyes widened—too late.
The scythe carved through the air with a shriek, its edge glowing faintly from friction. He flinched back, but horror overtook him as the blade detached from the pole—growing rapidly in his vision.
He ducked, barely avoiding decapitation, but not unscathed. The blade grazed his scalp, carving a red line across his temple. Blood arced into the air like a comet's tail.
Zephyr didn't stop.
He twisted mid-swing, letting momentum hurl him into a spinning backhand. The blunt end of the staff nearly cracked Cealsen's jaw, but the boy staggered backward—limbs tangled, balance shattered by pain and shock.
Zephyr didn't follow through— his body wouldn't let him.
He stood there—panting, blood pouring from the wound above his ribs, pooling at his feet. His right leg trembled violently. His chest heaved. Each breath dragged fire across his ribs. He was weakening— fast.
The detachment was supposed to finish it.
