Kael walked forward.
Each step was deliberate—measured, careful, the walk of a man whose body was screaming at him to stop but whose mind had already committed to something stupid. His broken ribs ground against each other with every breath. His slashed back wept blood down his legs. His mana reserves sat at maybe fifteen percent—enough for one more technique if he didn't waste it.
Thorne stood in the middle of the street.
The Rank 9's attention was fixed on Miss Beauty and Seraphine's battle—watching the flame goddess get dismantled with the detached expression of a man watching weather reports. His wind signature pulsed erratically. Uncertain. His mind was somewhere else entirely. Maybe already planning his escape in case Seraphine losses which from the looks of things, he was probably going to run.
Thorne felt something a fraction of a second too late.
His head snapped to the right.
Nothing there.
His signature flared—sweeping backward—
Behind.
He whipped around.
