It happened between one strike and the next. No telegraphing, no shift in stance. She simply planted her feet and didn't move.
Ifrit's fist came down and Maggie simply caught it.
One hand extended outward with an open palm. The impact cratered the ground beneath her in a perfect circle, turned the soil to powder, and sent fracture lines racing through the pavement in every direction. But her arm didn't buckle. Her body didn't fold. She held the Fire Lord's fist like it weighed nothing, and her crimson eyes looked up at the spirit with an expression I recognized from training.
The expression she wore right before she stopped playing.
White flames ignited along her knuckles.
