The Saint of Stone had an extremely cold gaze that could have frozen the lightning crackling around them into solid ice.
Then, in the next moment, that gaze became calm.
It was the calm of someone who had lived through centuries of conflict and had learned that panic was a luxury afforded only to those who could not afford to lose. It was the calm of a master who understood exactly what was at stake and exactly what needed to be done.
Around her, the guards nearby flooded into defensive positions with precision of those who had trained for exactly this scenario, their metal weapons raised and their Mana burning bright as they formed a wall of flesh and steel.
And in the shuffle of bodies and the flash of weapons, the figure of the Holy Daughter became hidden briefly, obscured by the press of Warriors who surrounded her with their own forms.
