The second reaver had already made it halfway toward the group, Ludwig was readying up to pounce on it when he saw the expressions of the party, they didn't look like amatures so Ludwig only watched.
Timur jumped up, twin blades crossing ahead of him in a gleam of silver arcs. He was short of frame, built closer to a street brawler than a battlefield veteran—but that meant nothing when he was in motion. His stature was the last thing his enemies remembered.
He let out a howl—not bestial, not holy, but something entirely his own, a war-cry of grit and lived violence—and met the Reaver mid-air.
Claws slammed into steel.
The impact was thunderous. Sparks burst from the clash in a staccato of gold and red, illuminating the gory ruin behind them. A deafening ring echoed across the manor as both combatants were flung backward from the force of it, boots carving grooves into blood-wet stone and wood. Neither yielded.
The Reaver's claws twitched. Timur's blades smoked.
