As the water sphere before Cynthia finally formed—perfectly stable, radiant, and gleaming like a polished crystal—she narrowed her eyes, a sharp light flickering within them.
She twirled on her heel, her wand gripped tighter than ever, newfound purpose coursing through her veins. The once-glittering orb now hovered just above her palm, pulsating with raw, elemental energy.
The ghouls had closed in. Too close now. Their cracked faces and hollow, thirst-hungry eyes locked onto her with an eerie desperation.
"You want water, right…?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with both pity and resolve. A strange, fleeting empathy passed through her expression—as if, in some twisted way, these ghouls were kin. Not in blood, but in suffering. In longing.
But that sympathy didn't last.
Marcus is still fighting, she reminded herself, jaw clenching, the image of him soaked in blood and water flashing in her mind. He's still holding the line alone…
Her expression hardened.
