On the charred plain, Maxwell growled, his pride bleeding through clenched lips. Quintella watched him glare at the colleagues who had dared to interrupt his execution of Adam. When his voice came out, it sounded like the hiss of the basilisk, or poison dissolving through flesh. She wasn't sure.
"Viktor and Astride defending him—I understand. Diane makes sense, as well, and so does Rector Haldris." He snapped his gaze to Grimhilde, his eyes locking on her extravagant red glasses. "You? With your past contention, you should have struck him down."
Grimhilde flung a lock of dark purple hair over her polished cuirass. Planting her hands on her hips, she strode past him with a snarl. "He'll be mine to torture by the end of the semester. Don't you dare lay your hands on my prey."
