Lord Alaric parried a sweep of his daughter’s blade, rage and anger clouding his features even as he restrained himself from fatal hits, showing her just how vast the difference was in skills when it came to the both of them. The rapidly healing body of hers, a sick gift bestowed by the revenant heart she had within her brought bile to his mouth, his techniques turning the air around them into sharp thin crystalized blades that tore into her with every swing of his blade.
Celia was still lord rank in name and power, and she met his attacks with sweeping gusts of wind that carried poisonous bits of unclean Ethra that attempted to stick to him, Alaric’s aura field burning them the moment they came in contact with it. Reversing the grip of his blade, he lashed out again, his projected attacks coming down on her like a hand of judgment, a scraping sound tearing through the air.