The hallway was still vibrating with the echo of that voice. The torches flickered wildly; dust swirled down from the cracked ceiling. And then, through the haze of smoke and blood, he appeared.
Kian.
The king's steps were slow, deliberate, and heavy enough to make the floor tremble. The torchlight caught the sharp planes of his face, the wet sheen of his hair, and the faint, unnatural glow still flickering under his skin from earlier.
He looked like something carved out of storm and shadow—beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Neither Asael nor Luca moved. Both were back in their human forms now, half-dressed, half-broken, blood running down their arms and staining the stone at their feet. The silence stretched, a noose tightening.
Kian stopped in front of them. His gaze swept the wreckage—the cracked walls, the scorched torchlight, the streaks of blood—and then finally landed on them. His eyes were no longer the calm blue of their king. They were too bright. Too alive.
