The enchanter retains an advantage, a greater pool of mana, though the Herald is not alone, and the interference of his companions, stalling either comrade or magic, allows him to match the other elf in combat. Still, he is the first to exhaust mana: his fight, soon, given to the simplest spells amidst quick, evasive steps.

Fiona wears thin for such an opponent, though, and Daithi glimpses sapphire in a vial. He scrapes the remains of his mana into a final push, then, catching Fiona in close quarters. He strikes the vial from her grip. She, in turn, crushes his cheek against the shaft of her weapon — electrocutes his shoulder, sparks in her palm, forcing his own staff from his fingers.

He uses his opposite shoulder, then; the collision, sending either elf to the snow, Herald above enchanter, where the immediate fight is for control of Fiona's staff. Daithi grits his teeth, willing his grip tight, pressing the staff ever near Fiona's throat. — until she gives, hollow in expression, and for half a heart's moment, naive for all that he knows elsewise, ... Daithi is hopeful.

Instead: "make it quick, Herald."

He thinks to refuse her. — hasn't the time to save more than Haven's people, though, and murmurs "ir abelas," thrusting a shortblade through Fiona's neck. Her blood spills warm.