The Seventh Prince cut down another charging vanguard with a fluid, blindingly fast arc of his pitch-black blade. As the soldier crumpled to the stone floor, the Prince's head suddenly snapped upward. His piercing blue eyes, visible through the slits of his matte-black mask, locked right onto the secondary staging platform.
He felt it—a gaze that wasn't filled with the chaotic panic of the battalion, but rather a cold, terrifyingly sharp scrutiny.
For a fraction of a second, through the swirling dust and dim torchlight, his eyes met Heena's. She was looking down at him not as a subject looks at royalty, nor as a mortal looks at a monster, but as a master strategist looks at a piece on a board. That single glance told the Regressor everything he needed to know: 'She' was the anomaly. She was the one who had shattered his perfect timeline.
A dark, dangerous curl entered his eyes. He didn't know who this girl was, but she had to die.
