Duskfire Glacier bran

atk: 10 / def: 20

The Wraith does not yield. Blackfell’s jaws snap forward, aiming to punish, to test, to rake teeth along the pale cheek of the frost-born. But Astier moves with frigid grace, tilting just out of reach. Teeth meet air, not flesh, nor fur.
His own strike, however, does not miss; jaws clamp down on his foreleg, not to tear, but to seize, to anchor. Then, with the momentum of snow-quiet calculation, the Wraith pivots. A sharp twist of weight, a drag of muscle against the slope, and he seeks to topple Blackfell’s stance, to make the mountain move, if only for a breath.