"Permafrost."
The cold takes the arena before the name finishes leaving Freya's mouth.
Frost runs through the cracks in the floor and covers the marks Motorhead opened. The air loses its moisture all at once, turning every breath into a white trail. The ice wings behind her shoulders grow until they throw blue reflections against the barrier, while the scythe fuses to her hands under a crystalline layer wrapping the shaft.
My plans could suffer a small delay if Freya really means to come at us with everything this early.
The timing of the demonstration, the signal for Leona, control of the formation. None of it matters if I'm crushed before I can light anything.
I'll solve this problem first.
