The streetlamps flickered above an empty lot on the edge of the city. Cracked pavement and rusting debris gave the place a haunted, forgotten feel. At the center of it stood two men, still as statues.
Edward flexed his gloved fingers. "You know how this ends, right?"
Across from him, Rafik exhaled, and mist spiraled from his breath. Frost spread beneath his boots like roots growing through the concrete. "Yeah. You go down."
Edward smiled. "You think your ice gives you the edge?"
"I know it does."
Then it began.
Edward rushed forward, smooth and fast. Years of street brawls made his movement unpredictable. A sudden feint to the left, then a roll to the right. His hands were open, ready. All he needed was one touch—skin-to-skin—and it'd be over.
But Rafik had fought his share of lunatics. He didn't flinch. As Edward lunged, Rafik dropped low and slammed his palms to the ground.
A burst of ice exploded outward, coating the ground in a slick sheen.
