Earl didn't move. He stood there with his war fan slung over one shoulder, one foot slightly forward, weight balanced. His eyes—once gleaming with excitement—had narrowed into slits of suspicion. Zephyr could see the calculation flickering behind them.
Earl had noticed the hair too— He wasn't blind.
But Zephyr wasn't focused on that.
What consumed him was the weight still lingering in the air. A pressure that didn't belong to Earl, nor to himself.
It belonged to the fan.
'I need to bait him'. Zephyr thought, cracking his neck as he staggered forward a step, ribs still aching with each breath. 'They're still distracted by my hair'.
He feinted left—then suddenly blasted right, stumbling as if still disoriented.
Earl didn't seem to notice that Zephyr was inching closer to his scythe. His gaze was fixed on Zephyr's hair, thoughts spiraling.
'A white-haired son of Demios?
Impossible—unless... the Ancestor himself?'.
