Amael stood there in front of Lisandra.
His silver hair whipped in the force of the shockwave, strands glinting like molten light in the glow of Metatron's aura.
In his hands was his blade—a silver sword, raised high, its edge locked perfectly against Metatron's massive weapon. He had parried the impossible. Cancelled the guardian's attack entirely.
The pond rippled behind them.
Lisandra could only stare at his back.
"You destroyed my camp, Metatron," Amael said as his silver eyes lifted to meet those blinding golden ones.
The guardian's eyes glowed brighter, unreadable, before its blade rose again for another swing.
Amael's brow creased.
"Get away," he ordered Lisandra without looking back.
But no answer came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stagger, her vision swimming before her knees buckled.
"Damn it" Amael groaned. In one smooth motion, he caught her against him and leapt away just as—
-BOOOOM!
The ground where they had been standing erupted into ruin.
