Vergil and the woman in white stood face to face for a moment that seemed to drag on for centuries. The silence was almost tangible, made of held breaths and pent-up auras. The wind blew through the broken trees, carrying the acrid smell of ash and blood.
The protector raised her fingers, as if sealing an invisible pact. The energy around her wavered, but not in an explosion—it was a sudden retreat, like a tide pulled back into the sea. The crushing weight that had previously vibrated in the air lessened, but the sense of threat did not disappear. It remained there, contained, like a blade sheathed in its sheath.
Naberius was the first to react. The flame on her blade dimmed, flickering lazily. She chuckled softly, bored.
"Very well. I'll pretend to respect your little game, old woman. But if it gets too boring, I'll set this forest ablaze myself just to see the color of your despair."
The protector inclined her head, showing no fear.
