Caleb didn't waste a breath.
His fingers snapped open, frost spiraling out in jagged veins. The black fluid hissed as thin layers of ice raced across its surface—not deep enough to stop the liquid, but just enough to seize the top twenty centimeters into a brittle, silver-blue crust.
It wouldn't last.
Two seconds.
Three, if they were lucky.
But it formed a path—
a trembling, cracking runway aimed directly at the point Damian had chosen.
Ethan was already moving.
His muscles trembled from the Mirage's drain, but the raw strength was still there—coiled and dangerous. He planted his feet on the freezing crust, boots cracking into the thin ice. The surface shuddered under his weight.
"Damian," he growled, voice hoarse. "Ready."