[i]Dragon[/i] was wild, possessed of every bit of bestial fury Quinn had seen in Roaki. Her long fingers swiped at the swordsman, and when she dipped or ducked his swings, her jaw would unhinge like a snake devouring an egg, and a beam of light would blast forth. But he was nimble, fast, he seemed to know what she would do the same instant she did, and every shot sailed past him. 

Dahlia could feel herself speeding towards the threshold. The Circuit always seemed so eager to meet her, to speak, to [i]take[/i]. The two ends were hands on her head, pressing, squeezing to come together, pressure ready to crush her skull and finally make itself whole again. 

But she never slowed down. 

The Modir was good, [i]incredibly[/i] so. But then, it had crossed swords with Ghaust and won, and when she had dropped down into Hovvi, it had fled before she ever laid eyes on it. Skilled, smart, [i]fast.[/i] She couldn’t outpace him, and she certainly couldn’t take a hit from that blade.

Her mind raced, as if employing the dead pulses of her Savior’s brain to work in tandem with her own. She thought quickly, as was the way when you only had minutes in the cockpit. 

Not minutes now. Not even moments. 

She passed the threshold. The hands began to [i]squeeze[/i]. Dahlia grit her teeth as the light burned in her core, radiated from her like sunlight through blinds. It poured from her eyes, from her chest, it made her horns glow molten. The swordsman must have known—of course he did. He whirled his blade and struck for her heart, perhaps expecting her to duck it and put herself out of position to unleash another attack. 

Instead, she let it run through her shoulder. The pain was blinding, the pressure on her temples was so strong she thought her ears might be bleeding. But she grabbed the blade near the hilt, and on the guard, and she [i]held[/i]. Her mouth opened, a bouquet of flaming teeth and a maw as bright as the sun. 

The swordsman’s grip loosened, his sword vanished into the air. His hands took hold of [i]Dragon[/i] by the throat and he [i]wrenched[/i] her to the ground, face-down. It took every effort in the world not to let the blast go, to let it turn her and him and everything within a mile into ash and void. 

[i][color=skyblue]Quinn.[/color][/i] 

[i][color=skyblue]I won’t lose Quinn.[/color][/i]

Dahlia swallowed fire for her sister. 

It was pain she’d only ever felt a few times, and as it traveled down her throat she knew it would push her out of consciousness. So with a final, furious scream, she pulled herself free of the chair, and [i]Dragon[/i] went limp. 

The swordsman saw it, must have known she’d disconnected. He yanked her up from the ground and then threw her down again on her back. Dahlia slammed against the cockpit walls, crying out, tumbling against the seat and then down onto the floor. He dug his fingers into her mouth and ripped the Savior’s lower jaw clean off. Then, reeling back his fist, he made to punch clean through the skull.

That was when Quinn’s blast hit him. It exploded against his cloak, sending modium and ichor flying. When the smoke cleared there was a crater in his shoulder, and his arm hung by black threads. 

He turned to her, red eyes furious—and when she looked back she saw only her own reflection. 

Before Quinn could fire again, the swordsman was gone. Vanished into the void. Escaped, again. 

The battlefield fell silent, for the battle was over.