[???]
Aurélie, Aithne, and Ezerald stood rooted in place, their bodies taut, muscles coiled for action. None of them dared move. Not yet.
Because Dante wasn't just strong. He was something beyond mortal. Beyond reason. He had reduced their battlefield to ruin without so much as a proper attack. A single strike had been enough to fracture the earth, distort the air, and stretch destruction beyond the horizon. It was neither magic nor divinity. It was simply his strength.
Ezerald clenched her fists at her sides, fingernails digging into her palm as frustration clawed up her throat like bile. She knew Dante was powerful—she had seen it firsthand. She had watched him battle Rhiannon to a standstill. She had felt his overwhelming strength when he had demolished both her and Beatrice with frightening ease. She could only imagine what he had been like during the Age of Gods, when his legend was written in the blood of dragons, Gods, and entire civilizations.
