The Last

Anya fell with the crimson shard in her pale chest; blood rushing down the grooved crystal, bubbling from her lips. His reserves were spent. Staggering, he lurched forward, fueled by the peace of one who knows he is to die. Advancing across the jagged glassy ground, acrid smoke from twelve shots roared to no effect. The sorcerer stood impassively until Argen limped within arm’s reach. Only then did the two sanguine shards over the sorcerer’s shoulders aim for his heart. They streaked, shattering before they struck. The sorcerer’s eyes widened. Argen turned. Anya hovered, inches off the ground, retribution incarnate.