Their laughter wasn't loud, nor uncontrolled. It was low, drawn-out, laden with certainty. A laugh that didn't need proof, because it had killed before. It echoed through the narrow alley and mingled with the soft crackle of ice forming beneath Damon's feet, spreading like a silent disease through the ancient stones.
The air shifted.
It wasn't immediately visible, but Morgana felt it. The pressure, the density, the sensation that the world had shrunk to that narrow space between damp walls. She adjusted her grip on the hilt of the ice sword, feeling the cold rise up her arm, not as something hostile, but as a mutual recognition.
Damon stepped forward, positioning himself almost instinctively between her and the hooded figures. The ice spear in his hand seemed alive, its core pulsing with a more intense blue as its energy accumulated.
