Arlon opened his eyes.
He was lying on the plains, the same battlefield where he had fallen. The same place where Asef's magic had swallowed him whole.
He didn't know how much time had passed.
He didn't even know if time had passed.
His body felt strange—weightless, almost unreal. The air around him buzzed faintly, as if it were holding its breath.
Then he looked up—and froze.
Just inches from his face, Asef's sword was reaching toward him.
His first instinct took over. Arlon kicked back and launched himself away, stumbling into a crouch as he braced for a follow-up.
But it never came.
Because Asef wasn't moving.
His arm was extended, his posture mid-strike, but he was as still as a statue. Not breathing. Not blinking. Not alive—but not dead.
Frozen.
Arlon's own breath caught in his throat.
He stood slowly, eyes scanning his surroundings.
