Lor didn't think. His hand lifted, a subtle flick of his fingers hidden in the brush, mana coiling quick and quiet.

Wind bent sharp, snapping branches as it gusted in a targeted burst.

The short-blade man's strike veered wide, the knife scraping her shoulder instead of sinking into her ribs, tearing fabric but drawing only a thin line of blood.

Ameth pivoted instantly, as if she'd read the miss like a page in a book.

Her axe handle whipped up, cracking him under the chin with a dull thud. His head snapped back, eyes rolling.

Before he could fall, her boot drove into his chest, sending him sprawling across the dirt with a choked grunt, the blade skittering from his limp fingers.

Lor pressed himself lower in the brush, his heart racing, palms slick with sweat.

Close. Too close.

He'd barely intervened, a whisper of wind to tip the scales, but it had been enough.

Ameth didn't look around, didn't scan the shadows—if she suspected help, she didn't show it, her face as blank as ever.

She simply adjusted her grip on the axe, her blonde braid swinging as she turned her cold eyes back to the fire mage.

"You—" he started, his voice cracking with pain and rage, but that was all.

She lunged, faster than Lor expected, her boots silent on the frost-cracked ground.

The axe wasn't swung to kill; its blunt side smashed against his wrist with a wet crack, bone snapping like dry twigs.

The flame winked out as he screamed, clutching his ruined arm.

Ameth grabbed his collar, yanking him down to her level, and slammed her forehead into his nose.

Blood burst in a spray, warm and metallic, and he crumpled, whimpering like a kicked dog.

The clearing went silent except for the ragged breathing of the fallen men, the faint drip of blood on dirt.

Lor realized then how controlled she was—her magic precise, just enough frost to freeze without overextending, woven seamlessly with the efficiency of her axe strikes.

No excess, no waste.

The frost hissed and smoked off her skin, haloing her in a faint mist that made her look less like a girl and more like a spirit carved from the cold heart of winter itself—ethereal, deadly, and achingly beautiful.

The bald man groaned, trying to rise on one arm, his frostbitten wrist limp at his side.

Crowbar-man twitched, rolling over with a pained grunt.

The fire mage whimpered, cradling his broken wrist, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

The short-blade man lay still, blood pooling from his nose.

Ameth stood still for a moment, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, her icy-blue eyes sweeping over them once—empty of anger, empty of pity.

Then she lifted her hand, palm out, frost coiling from her fingertips like living smoke.

The men tried to scramble, tried to crawl away on their bellies, but ice surged from the ground like veins of winter, crawling up their legs with a relentless hiss, binding them to the nearest pine trunks.

They shouted, cursed, begged—hoarse pleas that dissolved into gasps as the frost climbed higher, freezing their bodies in place, their breath fogging in panicked clouds.

In less than a minute, all four were plastered there, locked in stillness, their eyes wide with terror, their muffled groans the only sound breaking the forest's hush.

Ameth lowered her hand, the frost fading from her skin.

Her eyes swept the clearing once more, blank and unreadable.

Then she turned, picked up her axe, and began walking deeper into the forest, her braid swaying with each step, the blade resting casually on her shoulder.

Lor exhaled the breath he'd been holding, his palms damp, his heart still thudding from the gust he'd conjured—but mostly from watching her.

She hadn't screamed.

Hadn't gloated.

Hadn't flinched.

She had fought like a storm: inevitable, cold, and terrifyingly beautiful.

Lor's lips curved despite himself. "Ameth… you're way hotter than I thought."

And with that, he melted deeper into the trees, making sure she never saw him.

.

.

The forest had gone still again, the only sounds the measured rhythm of Ameth's axe biting into wood and the soft rustle of pine needles underfoot.

She stood in a deeper clearing now, her blonde braid swaying with each swing, her movements as precise as ever.

No trace of the earlier fight lingered, save for the faint frost-mist that clung to her shoulders, shimmering faintly in the dappled sunlight.

Her expression was unchanged—cold, unyielding, as if she'd been alone the entire time, untouched by the violence or the threat of the men now frozen to the trees.

Lor crouched in the undergrowth, his heart still racing from the encounter, his mind wrestling with the fact that she might have noticed him.

He was good at hiding.

He knew how to step lightly, how to mask his presence with a trickle of mana, blending into the shadows like a whisper.

There's no way she saw me, he told himself, his breath shallow as he watched her split another log with a clean, sharp crack.

She's just… cutting logs again.

That's all.

And then she turned her head, her icy-blue eyes locking directly onto the brush where he hid.

"Are you done peeking?" Her voice was flat, carrying easily through the still air, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. "Help me carry this."

Lor froze, his breath catching in his throat. His first thought was that she was bluffing, throwing words into the forest to see if they'd land.

But her gaze—sharp, unblinking, cold as the frost she wielded—pinned him in place, stripping away his illusions of stealth.

He stepped out from the brush, rubbing the back of his neck, forcing a sheepish grin to mask the jolt of adrenaline.

"I… ah… you saw me, huh?"

"Yes," Ameth said, her tone as emotionless as her face.

She bent, hefted another log with ease, and stacked it neatly in a growing pile, her movements precise and unhurried. "When you sat there staring at me between bites of meat."

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