"Drop your weapon," she said, voice husky with unshed smoke. "Or I will break you against that pillar."
"Doubtful," he murmured, but he made sure the respect in his eyes reached her. She fought despite fear; he honored that.
He drew a measured breath, letting Arturia's white mana soak his muscles, a cool bloom under the skin. The glaive hummed. Up close the runes looked like fresh snowflakes caught on silver branches—beautiful, yes, but also a reminder of burdens carried farther than most human bodies could endure. Griselda's spark flowed beneath, wanting release.
Not yet.
