"I've actually come to like you, Dryden. That's why you have to die today."
The ice wings compress behind Freya.
For an instant, every bit of frost hanging around her is pulled the same direction. The crystals leave short trails in the air, the scythe points at my chest, and the pressure under her feet, hovering inches off the floor now, opens new cracks in the stone.
Then she fires.
Pegasus Wrath doesn't look like a jump. Freya crosses the arena on a line of ice and compressed wind, fast enough to turn the wings into a blue streak behind her. The point of the scythe leads, funneling all that acceleration into a single spot.
Blocking it would mean accepting Freya's weight, Permafrost's weight, and every foot of distance she just converted into force.
I gather OXI in my boots.
At the same time, I picture Kraken rising against the scythe's shaft, changing the angle of the charge before the blade reaches my body. The sword understands with a vibration.
