Rhylen's expression gradually darkened as the battle dragged on.
The wound across his shoulder continued bleeding beneath the silver armor while several smaller cuts had already appeared throughout his body. None of them were life-threatening, yet each one served as a reminder of the same infuriating fact.
He still had not landed a single meaningful strike.
The black mist drifted through the woodland like a living thing.
It curled between the trees, swallowed sightlines and distorted distance. Even the sounds of the battlefield seemed muted beneath its influence. Every now and then Rhylen would catch sight of Zevran's figure only to discover a heartbeat later that his sword had passed through another illusion.
The assassin's power itself was not particularly overwhelming.
Had they fought in an open field under normal circumstances, Rhylen was confident he could have overwhelmed the man through sheer skill and strength.
