The Fourth Circle Wizard's team slipped back into the cover of snow and frostbitten pines, feet crunching through the crusted snow. One of his lackeys, a young man with frost charms dangling from his collar, finally dared to speak.
"Sir… why did we retreat? It was just two people—"
The Fourth Circle Wizard turned so sharply that the young man nearly bit his tongue. A cold, burning glare pinned him to the spot.
"That white-haired man," The Fourth Circle Wizard hissed, voice low and sharp: "Do you know who that is? He's not just any stray wizard. That's Dean Chronis — a Fourth Circle Wizard, same as me. And not an ordinary Fourth Circle Wizard at that."
The lack blanched, "Dean… Chronis?"
