Step.
Boom.
Step.
Boom.
With each strike of his foot, Julian's lungs thundered. Breath became storm. Muscle became lightning.
Cael saw it—the shift, the gathering storm in Julian's frame. Without hesitation, he launched the ball high, booting it into the open sky, clearing Lincoln's half with every ounce of his strength.
The ball spun.
The stadium held its breath.
Victor felt it first—the dread. The weight of the threat that Julian was becoming. If he reached it, if he claimed that ball, the match would tip. Lincoln would win.
Instinct screamed at him. The instinct of a predator who refused to lose.
He lunged, hand snapping out, fingers clawing for Julian's shirt.
But by the time his fingertips brushed the air, Julian was gone.
Running.
No—tearing forward.
The pitch shook beneath each stride, clods of wet grass flinging into the air.
