Azhriel's gaze remained steady, untouched by the demon's threats or the bishop's silent malice. He didn't even move a hand toward Frostborne. He didn't need to.
"Zone," he whispered the words with a quiet cold.
The effect was instant.
Reality cracked.
The space around them distorted like shattered glass, bending and twisting. In a blink, the familiar forest vanished. Replaced by something far colder, far more unforgiving.
White.
Cold.
Thunder.
A thunderous, frozen world swallowed the battlefield whole.
The ground was covered in pristine frost, stretching endlessly in every direction. Icy winds howled like spirits, lashing at the cloaks of the intruders.
Overhead, the sky was cloaked in rolling storm clouds—thick and heavy. Bolts of lightning crackled across the sky, fierce and wild, screaming down like the wrath of a god.
And Azhriel stood at the center of it.
Not a word.
Not a single motion of fear.
He had activated his own Zone.
