A harsh breeze cut low across the cobblestone street, sharp like it carried Leona's magicked thorns themselves on the wind.
Ezra stared down the woman in front of him - she who calls herself the Magician of Thorns. Her eyes, sensual and glimmering, fell half-lidded with the smugness of someone who believed the outcome of this fight had already been decided.
Her strawberry blonde hair cascaded like a sheet of flame down her back, but it was the way she twisted the whip of thorns that coiled in her hands that drew most of Ezra's focus.
"You seem a little nervous," Leone said, stepping forward further into the moonlight. The thorns along her whip shifted and curled, moving along the vines like a slow blade of a chainsaw. Ezra took careful note - this magic wouldn't just rip - it would tear.
"That's good. I like nervousness. A cornered animal fights hardest. Your flame will burn even brighter before I finally snuff it out.
