Zane had drifted back to the plaza's edge the moment the sky began to scream. As Ignivara and Rex ascended into the stratosphere, he hadn't just retreated; he had recalculated.
He repositioned with the cold, surgical intelligence of a grandmaster shifting a piece on a board, his eyes tracking the changing geometry of the battlefield. His Void working hummed at a low, predatory frequency, a passive spatial displacement that rippled the air around him like heat haze, constantly scanning for the exact insertion points he would need to strike if the heavens decided to fall.
His breathing was a rhythmic, terrifyingly controlled tempo. He had shed the heavy, forward-weighted stance he had used against Tremor, shifting into a loose, lateral posture, the stance of a man who was no longer bracing for a hammer but preparing to dance with a blade.
He was reading Apollo. He was dissecting him.
