He surged forward, blade dancing, each strike aimed with lethal precision.
The Hollowed Commander countered, its claws blurring through the air, striking with a force that could have shattered stone.
But Argolaith was faster.
Stronger.
His footwork was flawless, weaving between its attacks, his sword carving through tendons, joints, weak points.
Each strike—erasing.
Each wound—permanent.
The Hollowed could not heal.
And that was why it was afraid.
It roared, the sound shaking the battlefield.
The Hollowed horde trembled.
Malakar narrowed his gaze. "It is calling to something."
Kaelred, still fending off a swarm of lesser Hollowed, scowled. "Calling what?"
And then—
The monolith pulsed.
Argolaith felt it immediately—
A surge of unnatural energy rippling outward, like a second heartbeat thrumming through the valley.
The tree fragment above them trembled in its chains.
The Hollowed were still feeding into it.
Still corrupting it.
