"As I thought… all Gold Bloods are the same."
"Gold Blood? Not only are you a disloyal dog, but a hypocritical one, too."
Margrave Alaric Breval snorted, cold disdain etched across his face as he looked at Pierre de Corvalin. A shadow fell over Pierre's expression.
"A pity, though," Alaric continued, turning back toward Azriel.
"Boy, if you're not an ally, then you're an enemy. And I offer my enemies the same courtesy I've given them all—death."
He raised his hands.
Suddenly, the wind howled.
The air twisted, spun like a cyclone as invisible pressure began to crush the space around them. Hair lifted, cloaks snapped, and dust whipped into the sky. The wind swirled around the Margrave, drawn to him like a living force.
Azriel's gaze darkened.
'Wind affinity…'
The two knights standing nearby didn't hesitate. The moment they felt it, they turned and fled—vanishing like shadows against the wind.
Crackling arcs of lightning coiled around Azriel.
