Trafalgar was screwed.
He hadn't moved in minutes. Hadn't breathed loud enough to fog a mirror. His entire body was pressed against the cold dirt, half-covered in frost, hidden behind a crooked tree stump and a snow-capped boulder.
Not that it mattered.
'Shit… Valttair, are you really going to let your only generational talent die out here like this?'
He scanned the treeline slowly.
Snow. Rocks. Branches. Pines weighed down by ice.
No sign of the private soldier Lady Seraphine had sent.
And that was the problem.
Trafalgar inhaled quietly through his nose, then reached down and laid Maledicta beside him.
His fingers touched the snow. Ice clung to his gloves as he pressed together a small orb of compact frost.
He didn't aim.
He just tossed it high—straight up.
Fwsssshhht—!!
The sound ripped the air apart.
