Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. "My enemy," replied her son. They are horrible.
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