Frigoris's head turned first—snapping toward me with that mechanical precision, her heavy-lidded eyes finding me instantly.
Hawthorne's followed a fraction of a second later, his gaze dragging away from his opponent with visible effort.
Both of them saw me.
And Hawthorne's brown eyes widened in bewilderment.
"Wha—?! Agora?! What are you doi—"
Hawthorne's voice never finished the question.
The words were cut off as though severed by a blade, swallowed by the sudden violence that erupted in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
The thing they had been fighting moved with the suddenness of a striking serpent—as though it had simply decided to exist in a new location and reality had obliged.
A single, open-handed chop cut through the air with a whistle that only sounded gentle and connected with the side of Hawthorne's neck and shoulder.
