Mitchelle smiled faintly as she gazed down at the injured Angel, her expression calm, almost serene. She said nothing. There was no need to. She genuinely enjoyed opponents like this, beings who fought magic with magic, spell against spell, energy against energy.
Mitchelle was, above all else, a lover of magic.
She loved magic almost as deeply as Michael loved the sword. Anyone capable of wielding magic at a certain level naturally earned a sliver of respect in her eyes. Not admiration, not reverence, simply acknowledgment. To her, magic was not merely a tool for destruction; it was an art, a discipline, and a philosophy all its own.
Although she loved Vega dearly, Mitchelle knew that Vega was not a true magician in the strictest sense. Vega did not cast magic, she willed it. There was a vast difference.
