The contempt on his face was the thing that did it.
Not Wren, or the mountain shaking above my head or the blood on the snow or any of it. It was the specific quality of the smile Harter Hammerfeld wore when he looked at me. It made me wanna go mad with rage.
So much that I broke into a swift movement, lunged towards him.
And at half the distance cut between us, Feather Step swallowed the rest in a blink and I came out of it behind him, with Frostfang already swinging, the white flame packed into the broken edge burning cold and sharp against the grey air of the pass.
Harter pivoted into the strike without flinching, and Wren was there before his hands needed to be — a silver line sweeping between us, catching Frostfang edge-on and redirecting it wide.
The impact shuddered up my arm.
