His head whips in the direction of the voice, eyes scanning the edifice as blur resolves into detail until... aha, there! Zenos grins darkly. There's something special about an enemy that's relishing the conflict; something rare, and precious, and worth savoring. It's a shame he lacks the time to spend on the boy (and the boy the sense to just leave, and seek him later) if he wants to get a shot at the Eikon.

(He will, as it transpires, not get the shot he craves, but he does not know that).

So end this quickly he instead, regrettably, must; he throws his scythe skywards and leaps after it, infusing the weapon with a measure of aether as he catches it, before bringing the whole thing - blade and self both - crashing down towards the ledge Wrathion occupies. It's too small to accommodate his bulk even if it were empty, but landing on it's not the point so much as - weakened as it already should be - tearing through it with the impact.