The Realm of Ice Elves (29)

He was already moving before the Queen's leg had fully buckled. The tremor in the ice, the shifting balance of the fight—he felt it, like a hunter sensing the heartbeat of his prey.

His form weaved through the battlefield, a specter slipping between falling claws and whipping tail strikes. The Queen lashed out blindly, her monstrous limbs carving through the frozen air in an effort to swat him down.

She missed every time.

He was too fast, too fluid, too untouchable.

And now—he had his chance.

Findir threw himself forward at an angle, sprinting along the jagged ridges of ice, using the battlefield itself as his springboard. His boots barely made a sound, his presence lost in the storm.

Then, at the apex of his movement, he vaulted upward.

His body curled into a tight flip, twisting midair, carrying him directly toward the Queen's head.

A flash of steel.

Then another.