"Guess I should put an end to this," Altair breathed out, holding his hand out as a golden feather glided into his palm.
As the mystical item befell the Invictus' hand, it extended both ways, curving into a new form: a snow-white, flawless blade. A wing extended from the side of the handle; the blade was as thin as a sheet of paper, yet daunting in appearance.
Before Bastian could attempt a desperate counterattack, rapid footsteps echoed before a yell followed:
"Hold on—!"
It was a voice Bastian knew, though his mind could hardly process just why they were there. Rushing between the two Invictus stood the thin, bruised young man, whose hands were still bound in cuffs.
"...Gaston?" Bastian muttered out in shock.
