Kael pressed the advantage.
He drove his claws into Lucien's chest, deeper than before, and felt the god's flesh tear beneath his fingers. Black ichor sprayed, hissing against the broken stone.
But Lucien didn't fall.
Instead, he laughed.
"You don't understand," he said, his voice layered and vast. "My master's blessing. Every blow you land, every wound you inflict… it feeds me. The more you fight, the stronger I become."
Kael's blood ran cold.
He struck again, faster this time, claws raking across Lucien's throat. The wound opened, black ichor spilling—
And then it closed.
The flesh knitted itself together before Kael's eyes, the wound vanishing as if it had never been there. Lucien's aura flared brighter, his muscles swelling, his movements growing sharper.
"You see?" Lucien spread his arms wide. "You cannot kill me, little wolf. You can only make me stronger."
Kael attacked anyway.
He had to. There was no other choice.
