Mitchelle floated calmly before Azarion StarWeaver, her posture relaxed, her presence serene despite the devastation surrounding them. Before her, the eleven-winged Angel emerged from the lingering haze of destruction without a single visible injury. Its radiant form gleamed with divine perfection, having blocked Mitchelle's previous attack with quiet, almost dismissive ease.
"Leave," Mitchelle said flatly, not bothering to turn toward Azarion StarWeaver. "I can't fight at full power while also trying to protect you."
Azarion's eyes narrowed instantly. He had never been spoken to in such a manner before, never ordered away, and certainly not by a woman standing alone against an eleven-winged Angel. His pride flared instinctively, his wisdom screaming defiance.
Yet despite his arrogance, despite his immense power, he knew the truth.
Mitchelle was right.
