Isvarn's hand fell like a meteor.
The air compressed beneath his palm, centuries of dragon fury channeled into a single blow. He was ready to open Yuuta's skull, to end this pathetic drama forever, to erase the weakness that had infected his queen like a plague spreading through Atlantis. His claws extended, curved and white, ancient as mountains, sharp as the divide between life and death.
The hand fell.
And stopped.
The sudden halt created a shockwave, invisible but tangible, a pulse of displaced air that rippled outward from Isvarn's palm. The force struck Yuuta's forehead, reddening the skin, stirring his dark hair. But the mortal did not wake. Erza's spell held him in deep, peaceful sleep, unaware that death had hovered within an inch of his face, unaware that the grandfather of the woman he loved had nearly ended his existence.
Isvarn's eye had caught something.
