"Perfect."
She launched herself into the pack again, spinning her blade in brutal, unrefined arcs—every strike born from muscle memory, aggression, and sheer refusal to yield. Her form was ugly, wild—but nothing got past her.
And behind her, Ethan danced.
Where Julia overwhelmed, Ethan controlled. Every enemy that broke through her radius was met with surgical bursts of lightning, his spear snapping out in short, precise jabs that targeted joints, cores, and exposed sigils. Where Julia cracked skulls, Ethan shut systems down.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
This wasn't coordination.
This was instinct.
Marin covered their blind spots with mid-range strikes, his blade darting between Julia's kill zone and Ethan's fallback line like a stitching thread. Kaela ghosted between outcroppings, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds, every arrow making space before the others could feel pressure. Raine's hands never stopped glowing—shield, cleanse, mend, repeat.
