Just as the Iron King clears the final pinnacle, I leap upward, about to meet him mid-air, my fists extended. The gleam in his black eyes tells me he wants to tear right through me.
In the last seconds before we would collide, I switch tactics, drawing my swords, but, with a quick flick of my wrist, I transfer the sword in my left hand to my right, the two hilts fitting neatly side by side in my closing fist. Immediately, I allow my icy power to flow across my right palm, solidifying around the hilts of both swords as well as my fist so the blades become part of my arm.
And free up my left hand.
Striking with the combined blades, I narrowly miss impaling the Iron King’s chest, but that wasn’t my intention.
To avoid the striking steel, he rapidly adjusts his flight path, his muscles bunching, carrying him to my left, where he has a direct line of sight to the Oracle.
Exactly the direction I anticipated he’d move.
I pour ice from my left hand directly into his new path, sharp shards forming in the air with which he can’t avoid colliding.
They don’t stop him, but they do knock him off-balance, ice shattering around him.
Twisting mid-air, now facing Nara and the Oracle, I swing my left arm, pouring ice into the gaps around the Iron King, filling every escape so fast that he can’t avoid knocking against the ice in the air. When he does, I strike hardest, a driving cascade of ice into his back.
He drops through the only clear space at his feet, but I’m relentless.
Even as gravity takes hold of me, I use it to my advantage, filling the air with frost, a snowstorm raging around him and me as we meet the ground.
Whatever sharp eyesight he has, it’s obscured by the flurry raging around us.
A fury of falling snow that’s nothing new to me.
And contains a trap.
The smallest clear gap that will lead directly to the Oracle, who is safely outside the storm.
He dives toward the gap.
To be met with a wall of ice, the highest, widest wall I can create in the heartbeats I have.
I’m dangerously aware that I’m depleting my power at a rapid rate, but only an onslaught will give me victory against his strength and speed.
He spins to face me, fangs bared, his dark hair and black pants clearly visible within the flurry.
Now it’s time for my true attack.
As I close the gap between us, I smash my left fist against my right hand, cracking apart the ice sealing in my swords.
The Iron King roars through the storm as he lunges at me, his claws bared and right arm punching at me, but I don’t hold back, a cascade of ice knocking him the short distance back against the ice wall. In the same move, I step right, drop my second sword’s hilt into my empty palm, and adjust the swing of both blades.
One sword strikes directly through his upraised right hand, impaling his palm and ramming into the wall behind it, pinning him. At the same time, I strike my other sword, side-on, toward his neck, aiming to cleave his head from his shoulders.
He sacrifices his hand, ripping it downward, the sword cutting through his palm so he can duck the blade coming for his neck.
I was ready for that move, my booted foot kicking into his chest before he can move off the ice, shoving him so hard that cracks appear on impact, radiating out from his body.
Once more quickly adjusting the trajectory of my still-moving sword, I slice it downward, again at his neck.
“No.”
The Oracle’s sudden whisper is a shout in my ears.
She stands in the snowstorm only five paces to my right, somehow withstanding my billowing power, her hand outstretched toward me. “Please.”
The pure agony in her voice knocks into me as savagely as a punch, my jolting movement sending my sword off-course, scattering chunks of ice and missing my target.
