The black crystalline frost didn't stop at encasing the western fire-wielders. It propagated like living ink spilled across parchment, racing along the sand in jagged veins that sought out every source of residual heat in the arena.
The two Thermal Jet specialists didn't even collapse properly, their bodies simply locked rigid, statues sculpted from midnight ice and shattered alloy, mouths frozen in the middle of what might have been a final, useless command.
Aden exhaled again, slowly this time. The frost receded from his own skin in wispy tendrils of vapor that curled upward like smoke from a dying candle. His silver hair, barely disturbed earlier, now hung in perfect stillness once more.
"D—did he just..."
The hesitant voice that barely registered as a whisper didn't come from the Tetrarchy, they were too deep in shock for useless speeches. It was from the spectator seats, and despite the voice being a mute whisper, the effect was undeniable.
