With incredible composure, the spectators leave the stands in neat lines—a level of discipline I am absolutely not used to.
Back when I played soccer, the bleachers would empty in pure chaos, like the frenzied rush of Pamplona when the crowd ran from charging bulls.
Even Priscilla leaves the Volkom family's reserved seat, irritation clearly written on her face—I can't tell if it's because of me or because she couldn't keep up with a fight between mere humans.
Under her breath, she mutters something about the need to adopt serious measures to restrain the growing strength of familiars.
When the last of the spectators disappears, only Sasha and I remain, still sitting in our seats.
She is the one who breaks the silence.
«So my dear big sister really told you to sit tight and wait for me, huh... who would've thought?»
Her voice drips with sadism, almost malicious—basically no different from usual.
Just hearing her talk sends icy shivers crawling down my spine.
