Xeari hauled her up, his grip firm but not unkind. Without another word, he guided her to a nearby bench, depositing her with the same efficiency he used for battlefield triage.
"Stay here," he ordered, his grey eyes scanning her injuries with clinical precision. "I'm going to talk sense into them."
Blazar scoffed, tasting blood where she'd bitten her tongue. "Good fucking luck."
But Xeari was already walking away, his long strides carrying him toward the chaos where lightning still crackled against blood magic and ice met shadow in explosive bursts.
The moment Xeari's back was turned, Blazar pushed herself up from the bench, wincing as her ribs protested the movement.
Sharp pain shot through her side like knives, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand. She needed to get out of here—needed to breathe, to think, to plot Dante's slow, painful demise in excruciating detail.
