The white flame vanished from Bruce's arm, but the damage remained.
His wrist was raw, blistered, and the skin was peeling back to reveal scorched flesh beneath. He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He just cradled the ruined limb against his chest and stared at Grace, his earlier curiosity replaced by a sharp, assessing watchfulness.
He didn't retreat.
Luca got to his feet, his body a dull, throbbing ache and his mind still reeling. The memory of Sylvia's death, the piercing violation of his soul being pulled from his body – it lingered like a sickness. Iris's hand was a cool, steady pressure on his arm.
He watched Grace.
She stood between him and Bruce, her posture not aggressive, but impossibly confident. She was a shield. The thought was so simple, so absolute, that it cleared some of the fog from his mind. He'd seen her fight before, of course, but never like this. Never with this much confidence.
Grace took a step forward. "You only have one element, don't you?"
