Elara recognized her instantly.
Ronan's sister. Irene Ashbourne.
The resemblance wasn't obvious at first glance – Irene's silver hair and sharper demeanor contrasted with Ronan's over darker, lazier appearance – but the family name alone carried weight. But more than that, Elara could feel the difference in their strength immediately.
Irene was leagues beyond Ronan.
And she was ready to fight all four of them alone.
Before Elara could speak, Irene vanished.
Not stepped. Not dashed.
Vanished.
A blur of silver crossed the space between them, and the only thing that allowed Elara to dodge was her instincts.
She ducked.
The scythe's blade whispered over her neck, close enough that she felt displaced air bite her skin violently. Elara channeled mana into her throat just in case, more instinct than anything, thickening the defensive layer beneath her flesh as she rolled aside to dodge.
But Irene didn't follow the swing with another.
