Etienne had never known fear. Raised in the storied halls of Ravenshade, a family praised as heroes and conquerors, she had grown up with the belief that fear was for the weak, for those beneath her blade.
She had been called the finest swordmaster of her generation, second only to Alaric himself, and had worn that title like armor her entire life. But now, that armor cracked after seeing a hundred of her finest knights collapse in an instant.
The sorceress before her stands without changing her expression, the weight of her presence pressing against Etienne's lungs, making every breath feel like glass. One swing, just one casual sweep of that glowing, fiery red blade, like it was on eternal fire, had split a hundred of her knights in half, mythril armor and all, their bodies collapsing to the ground behind her like wheat under a scythe. For the first time, Etienne understood what true fear felt like, raw and suffocating. Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it.
