Nathan cut through the skies, Rome's ancient silhouette slowly coming into view beneath the fading light of dusk. The wind howled past him in rushing waves, but his grip remained steady as he carried Freja securely in his arms. Just beside him, Medea soared with effortless grace, her long hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail.
He had deliberately chosen to carry Freja himself. The decision wasn't merely practical—it was born of caution. Nathan knew Medea well enough by now. She was volatile, prideful, and her jealousy burned like wildfire. If he had entrusted Freja to her, Medea might have let her slip through her fingers—or worse, discarded her deliberately—just to sate that venomous envy she sometimes struggled to contain because Nathan went to save Freja like a hero. It wasn't beyond her. In fact, it was exactly the sort of thing she was capable of.
Freja, however, was drowning in her own turmoil.
