They’d almost reached the center of the bridge when something strange happened.

Abel felt it — a chill down his spine, like the old legion saying about the Manes breathing on your neck.

Behind him, {{user}} cried out in pain.

“{{user}}!”

He whipped around just in time to see her stagger, clutching her ribs where black blood stained her tunic. A lamia towered over her, bronze claws dripping.

And in a single instant, Abel understood.

The strike hadn’t been meant for her.

The angle of the claws, the force of the lunge — the lamia had been aiming for his back. For the one unarmored seam between his shoulder plates.

But {{user}}… she’d seen it coming. Somehow. And thrown herself into its path.

Why? She couldn’t have known. No one knew where his weak point was. No one.

His eyes locked on the creature’s, and his fury roared to life.

“Wrong move,” he growled.

The lamia sneered.

Abel didn’t hesitate. He slammed the hilt of his gladius into its jaw so hard the bone cracked and the creature reeled back, hissing.

“Get back!” he barked, slashing the air in a vicious arc to drive it off {{user}}. “No one touches her. No one.”