A fight without a name

The clearing had become a battlefield in ruin. Trees lay splintered across the ground, roots torn from the earth, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched bark and blood. Smoke drifted lazily through the broken canopy, curling around the four figures still locked in combat.

Amari stood at the center, his coat torn and soaked through, the fabric clinging to his ribs where the gauntlet had struck him earlier. His mask—black, gold-eyed, and jagged across the cheek—remained fixed in place, unreadable. His sword hung low in his grip, the blade streaked with blood and dirt, but his stance was still solid. Wounded, yes. Slowing, maybe. But not broken.

The three men surrounding him were in no better shape.