"Don't look at me like that, bitch," he spat, his face inches from hers. "You think you're better than us? Think you're too good to even answer?"

Still, silence. Ameth's eyes didn't waver, her face a mask of cold indifference.

The fire mage let the flame in his palm grow brighter, the heat licking the air between them, casting flickering shadows across her face.

"We'll burn the clothes right off her," he sneered, stepping closer. "Then see if she keeps that face."

Lor's fists curled tighter,.

He knew a bit about Ameth—knew she'd never beg, never cry, maybe never even fight back unless pushed to the breaking point.

The bald man's hand clenched tighter in Ameth's braid, jerking her head back with a savage tug that made her scalp burn.

Her expression didn't change—not a grimace, not a spark of fear flickering in those icy-blue eyes.

They remained flat and cold as the frozen bark behind her, unblinking, as if the pain was just another sensation to catalog and dismiss.

The fire mage sneered, the flame in his palm swelling with a hungry crackle, orange light dancing across his soot-streaked face.

"She's not gonna talk nice. Guess we'll burn it out of her." His voice was gravelly, laced with the kind of false bravado that masked a coward's heart.

The others snickered, a low, ugly rumble that echoed through the clearing.

One shifted his weight, the iron crowbar in his hand glinting dully as he adjusted his grip, knuckles whitening.

Another drew a short blade, the metal whispering from its sheath, its edge catching the dappled sunlight like a promise of blood.

Lor crouched low in the brush, his heart hammering against his ribs, the rough ferns scratching at his sleeves.

He wanted to leap in, to unleash a gust of wind or a burst of mana to scatter them like leaves—but Ameth didn't look panicked.

Didn't even blink.

Her stillness was a weapon in itself, a void that sucked the air from the men's threats, leaving them grasping.

"Say something," the bald man snarled, his spittle hitting her cheek like a fleck of acid, sliding down her skin without a twitch from her. "Anything."

Ameth finally moved.

Slowly, her hand rose, fingers brushing the wrist gripping her braid.

She pressed—not hard, not fast, just enough that frost bloomed under her touch, a crystalline web spreading like veins across his skin.

The bald man yelped, a high, undignified sound, jerking back as his wrist smoked white with rime, the cold burning deeper than any flame.

"Bitch!" he roared, clutching his arm, his face twisting in pain and fury.

She bent at the knees in a fluid motion, scooping her axe up from the dirt, the handle fitting her palm like an extension of her arm.

In the same seamless swing, the flat of the blade cracked against the crowbar-man's shin with a sickening thud.

He howled, stumbling sideways, his leg buckling as bone protested under the impact.

Ameth didn't waste words, didn't pause for breath.

She stepped in, grip shifting with predatory grace, the axe shaft driving into his gut like a piston.

He folded, choking on a wet gasp, his face purpling. Her knee rose to meet his crumpling form, slamming into his face with a sharp crack of cartilage.

Blood sprayed, and he dropped to the dirt, twitching like a broken puppet.

Lor's lips parted, his breath catching in his throat.

She moved like water—fluid, inevitable, every strike economical, no wasted breath, no wasted motion.

No flourish, no rage.

Just cold, precise violence that left him staring, a strange heat coiling in his gut.

He'd always found Ameth's beauty unsettling—that sleek blonde hair, those sharp cheekbones, that unyielding stare.

But now, mid-fight, it transformed: terrifying and graceful at once, hot in the way a blizzard was hot—untouchable, dangerous, but pulling at him like a magnet, making his cock stir despite the danger.

The bald man recovered enough to charge, his fist cutting the air where her face had been—until she tilted her head, barely an inch, letting it whistle past.

Her elbow rose in response, a cold-blue glow coiling around her arm like living mist.

When it struck his jaw, frost spiderwebbed instantly across his stubble, his teeth clacking together so hard he bit his own tongue.

Blood welled, and he fell, clutching his mouth, muffled curses bubbling through his fingers.

Lor exhaled slowly, his palms damp with sweat. He had always found Ameth's beauty… unsettling.

That sleek blonde hair, those sharp cheekbones, that unyielding stare. But now, mid-fight, it was different.

She was terrifying and graceful at once.

"Don't just stand there!" the fire mage barked, his flames roaring higher, the heat distorting the air into wavering mirages. "She's just one girl!"

He thrust his palm forward, a spear of fire lancing outward, scorching the pine needles at its edges.

Ameth pivoted, axe haft crossing her body like a shield. Frost surged from her core, coating the wood in a layer of glittering ice.

When flame met ice, steam screamed into the air, a hissing cloud that blinded the mage for a heartbeat.

She slid back half a step, boots crunching frost, but didn't break, her stance unyielding.

The mage's teeth bared in a snarl.

He poured more mana into the blaze, the fire widening, its roar drowning the clearing in heat and light.

Ameth exhaled through her nose, her icy-blue eyes narrowing to slits.

Then she snapped her wrist, the frost along her axe shattering outward in a spray of ice knives, riding the plume of steam like shards of winter's wrath.

The mage shouted, stumbling back, arms thrown up as cuts bloomed across his cheek and forearm, blood welling in thin lines.

His fire faltered, sputtering out in wisps of smoke.

That was when the short-blade man lunged from her blind spot, his knife flashing in a vicious arc.

Lor's stomach flipped, his breath catching.

He was fast, too fast—Ameth's focus was locked on the fire mage, her body turned just enough that she wouldn't see it in time.

Shit.

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