Quinlan looked at the ice spire on the distant ridge, and the first cut hit it before his expression changed.
There were no hands raised, saber cuts, or gestures of any kind.
He stood in the sky with his arms at his sides and the upper third of the spire sheared clean off as if an invisible blade the width of the battlefield had passed through it.
The severed chunk toppled from the cut and crashed into the ridge slope in an avalanche that swallowed the treeline and sent tremors through the frozen earth hard enough to buckle knees on the nearest front.
The second cut came before the debris settled, then a third, then a fourth, each narrower and more precise than the last, the arcs tightening as the spire lost mass and the target inside it grew closer to the surface.
Multiple soldiers couldn't help but look up.
