The old hag had assumed Ethan, perched on Ormund's back, wasn't a War God-rank fighter and therefore couldn't fly. But when Ormund plummeted and Ethan remained suspended, gripping her weapon, her eyes lit up with sudden opportunity. With a shrill cry, she jerked the chain in her hand, intending to drag him down.
To her shock, the pale spinal column in Ethan's grasp didn't budge. It was as if rooted to the sky. She tugged harder, but he wouldn't move an inch. Fury twisted her face. She had expected to easily subdue some rookie human. Even if she couldn't sense his true strength, there was no way a man his age could be that powerful. Only one human genius in a thousand years had ever reached War God-rank before thirty—and this boy clearly wasn't thirty. If he were a prodigy of that caliber, humans would be singing his name across the continent, not calling him "Master Ethan" like some backwater nobody.
