Jean's double-ended sword spun around her, not wildly, but with perfect martial control, each rotation a precise, trained motion, like a master staff-user twirling a weapon at speeds meant to overwhelm the eye. The blade whistled sharply, slicing grooves into the air itself as it spun, carving a circle of killing intent around her.
Cold wind howled, not in gusts but in continuous streams, dragged into the rotational current of her technique. The ground whitened. Frost flakes danced. The air cracked with the abrupt drop in temperature.
A rotating field of freezing blades formed around her, each strip of spinning frost sharper than honed steel. Anything entering that radius would be shredded, flesh, bone, armor, even stone, but Bruce durability was far above all this...
From afar, she looked like the epicenter of a forming cyclone, an icy hurricane twisting around a still, lethal core.
And at that center stood Jean Frost, her eyes glowing like twin frozen stars.
