The moon hung blood-red over the battlefield, a crimson omen bleeding across the night sky as Lucien Mason stood at the center of the slaughter. Corpses of werebeasts and rogue cultivators littered the scorched grass, their bodies twisted by the fury of his destructive power. The very air still hummed with residual energy, crackling with the aftermath of violence that had torn through reality itself.
But Lucien wasn't alone.
Beside him stood Alira, cloaked in midnight silk that seemed to absorb the moonlight itself. Her eyes burned with the last remnants of her transformation, pupils dilated and rimmed with silver fire. Her breathing was shallow, each exhale visible in the suddenly frigid air, her lips trembling as she looked up at him—not with fear, but with something dangerous and unspoken. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, evidence of the price she'd paid for her power.
