Meanwhile, Roman, still slumped against a container, gripped his blade with a trembling hand.
"What the hell just happened?"
Nereva shot Roman a sidelong glance. "Go home, little soldier. Tell your boss the Dark Hand won't tolerate interference."
Roman, breath ragged, body still thrumming with pain, locked eyes with Constantin, his gaze burning. Blood still seeped from the gash in his side, dripping onto the debris-strewn ground—shards of metal and organic remnants of Nereva's tentacles.
"You're really abandoning your garden?" Roman's voice was hoarse. He took a step forward.
Constantin didn't answer. His once-fiery gaze was dull, extinguished.
Roman clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Frustration surged like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. "I asked you a question!" he roared, his voice echoing through the ravaged clearing. "Why are you leaving now? What's changed? What did he say on that call?"
