The air thickened. The cracks widened. Shadows swelled upward, curling toward Lindarion like serpents about to strike.
And then —
A voice cut through the void.
Cold. Feminine. Amused.
"You shouldn't have touched my disciple."
The darkness behind Lindarion split open like torn fabric, and a girl stepped through.
She looked no older than sixteen, slender, pale, her long hair black enough to drink the light, her eyes two pits of endless night. She wore a dress the same color as the void itself, simple but regal, the fabric drifting as if underwater.
Every instinct Lindarion had screamed she was worse than Zerathis.
Zerathis's expression actually changed, his gaze narrowing, the faintest tension in his stance.
"Ouroboros," he said, the name like a slow exhale.
The girl's lips curled in the faintest smile as her gaze flicked to Lindarion.
The void seemed to grow colder.
—
The air between them didn't move.
