The masked figure laughed—light, mocking, amused. With a flick of his wrist, the geyser of flame vanished, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. At the exact moment Aveline's fist sailed through the air, his form shimmered—and disappeared.
Both Marcus and Aveline froze mid-motion.
Their eyes scanned the battlefield in tandem, instinct buzzing.
"Where the hell—" Aveline muttered, spinning to check their flank.
But it was too late.
The masked figure reappeared behind Marcus, silent as a phantom, already twisting into a flying kick meant to drive straight into Marcus's ribs.
"You're the only one keeping distance…" he sneered mid-air. "So you must be weak up close!"
It was a simple assumption.
And dead wrong.
Marcus smirked—he'd seen it coming.
With perfect timing, he caught the masked figure's leg with both arms, his boots grinding against the cobblestones as he absorbed the kinetic force.
"Good guess," Marcus said coolly. "But also a bad one."
His grip tightened.
