"Drop your weapon!" The Erpeopian's voice cracked on the last syllable. Sweat traced a slow path from his temple down to his jaw, catching the light. His arms trembled around Sylvi's neck—not from effort, but from something else. Fear.
He smelled of old sweat and pine needles. Close up, Freya could see the white of his knuckles, the way his throat bobbed with every swallow.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.
"Do you hear me—?!"
His grip loosened for half a second. A tremor. An opening.
By the time he blinked, she was on him.
"F-Freya?!" She shot up, looking at the woman who stood above the Erpeoian. He was still breathing, a staff pressed to his neck.
"And remember Freya," Vagnis' voice came through to her during her madness, his warning bringing her back to her senses. "Don't kill anyone, not until our hands are absolutely forced in this war."
