'What is he talking about?' Klaus barely had time to register Erion's words before the black ice sword descended again. He met it head-on with Greed, the impact vibrating up his arms like a struck bell.
BANG!
The force shoved him backward five steps, boots carving trenches through the singing ice. Klaus's breath caught — not from pain, but surprise. He'd held back, testing Erion's rhythm. Yet the patriarch had moved him like a child pushing a toy cart.
Across the courtyard, Erion's obsidian eyes flickered. His stance didn't waver, but his gloved fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his sword's hilt. He'd expected Klaus to skid ten paces, maybe collapse. The Lionhart heir stood steady, white hair whipping like frozen flame, Greed humming with violet energy in his grip.
'Strong.' The thought carved itself into Erion's mind. A slow, sharp smile spread across his face — a predator recognizing worthy prey.
Without warning, Erion vanished.
