After every fragment of thought finally slid into place, Liam wasted no time. He burst into motion, darting through the breadth of Percy's pseudo-domain with sharp, deliberate movements, boots skidding across frost-slick ground as the air screamed around him. Almost immediately, the domain reacted. More ice clones emerged from the fog, their forms carving themselves out of frozen mist, and this time they were accompanied by violence from every angle—jagged ice spikes and spears tearing through the air, descending from above, erupting from below, and launching from blind spots Liam couldn't afford to ignore.
Yet paradoxically, the escalation played directly into Liam's hands.
To keep his Myst absorption hidden—subtle, unnoticeable, and beneath Percy's perception—Liam needed to appear overwhelmed. He needed the illusion of desperation. A knight on the back foot. A fighter too busy surviving to scheme. The relentless barrage of ice made that deception effortless.
