Pattern Switch
Control
The arena buzzed with tension as the crowd’s roar faded into a low hum, blades clashing in sparks that lit the dusk. A masked duelist pivoted, his crimson cloak swirling like liquid fire, while his opponent—a hulking mercenary with scars crisscrossing his armor—lunged forward, axe cleaving the air. "You think speed alone wins wars?" the brute growled, slamming his weapon into the ground, fissures snaking toward the duelist. With a flick of his wrist, the masked fighter unsheathed a hidden dagger, its edge glinting with unnatural venom. "No," he murmured, sidestepping the tremor, "but precision does." The mercenary staggered, eyes widening as the blade found the chink in his shoulder plate. Blood seeped into the soil as the duelist leaned close, voice cold. "Tell your warlord his throne cracks next." Cheers erupted, drowning the mercenary’s choked curse, while shadows deepened in the distant citadel—a silent promise of storms to come.
description
The sun dipped below the jagged horizon, casting long shadows across the ruins of a forgotten citadel. Moss clung to crumbling stone, each crack humming with echoes of battles lost to time. A lone wanderer paused at the edge of the courtyard, boots sinking into soil thick with ash and memory. Their fingers brushed the hilt of a blade notched by countless clashes—steel colder than the wind howling through empty archways. Somewhere above, a falcon’s cry pierced the silence, sharp as the scent of iron lingering in the air. They stepped forward, each footfall stirring whispers from the past: promises etched into shields, curses swallowed by dust, the weight of a crown never claimed. Torchlight flickered ahead, dancing like a mirage in the deepening gloom. Laughter echoed—not from the living, but from walls that remembered feasts and betrayals in equal measure. The wanderer’s breath hitched. This place knew their name before they did.
