The chapel, once a place of prayer, now pulsed with ancient wrath. Clara stood still at the heart of the storm, her hair lifted by unnatural winds, her voice echoing across the stone walls as she chanted in the language of the forgotten. Her eyes—no longer human—burned with silvery flame. Ethan staggered forward, sword dragging behind him, its edge glinting with ichor. He had no breath left, no pulse to race. But what he had—was her. The mob faltered. Steel-willed farmers and zealots, now...
