As the Dowager tore into the lunatic, it was like watching a storm breaking against a cliff.
Each strike hit with more fury than the last.
Although he had only known her for a short time, Leon never thought she was one to lose her composure like this; he had never seen her abandon the cold restraint she usually carried like a second skin.
But he understood why.
The corrupt swarm earlier hadn't angered her; vile as they were, they hadn't harmed the steps. But this thing, this deranged creature, it had landed with enough force to scar the very legacy her ancestor had forged.
To someone of imperial blood, someone raised on stories of the First Emperor, it wasn't just an insult.
It was blasphemy.
The Dowager's blows hammered the lunatic again and again, her wolf form a blur of claws and white fury.
Yet something was off, and Leon caught it before she did.
The creature never struck back.
