"Just what are you doing?"
Selaphiel's voice cut the air, sharp with anger, her expression twisted into something ugly and unrestrained.
"Selaphiel, slow down—what… whoa."
Zhou, who had followed just behind, came to an abrupt halt as her eyes fell upon the carnage laid bare before them.
The creature was gone—no longer hulking or monstrous—its remains now reduced to a small, quivering black mound.
From that cluster, faint motes of light drifted upward like dying fireflies, vanishing into the air. Yet, the residue of its presence still clung to the atmosphere, thick and oppressive.
Lyra lay sprawled on the floor in the wake of it all, collapsed on the blackened floor, limbs akimbo.
Sweat glistened across her pale, strained features. Her breath came in short, erratic bursts.
Her clothes were soaked in blood, the foreign ichor slowly dissipated, leaving behind only her own bright red stains. Often accompanied by deep gashes.
