The night hung heavy, thick with the smell of blood and the acrid tang of corrupted mana. The World Tree's roots shivered beneath the weight of dying chants, its pale glow flickering weakly as dozens of exhausted dark elves formed a protective ring around its trunk. Beyond them, cultists encircled the sacred heart, their murmurs a constant, grating pulse in the night.
At the center of it all, crimson met gold. Luca's eyes burned like molten fire against Sylthara's sharp, unyielding golden gaze. Her dagger pressed steadily against his neck, the cold steel biting into his skin, a reminder of the fragile line between trust and death.
Luca's annoyance flared, but he forced himself to inhale slowly, centering his mind. Calmness was a weapon too. He met her stare, unflinching.
"Who are you?" Sylthara's voice was low, strained with exhaustion, her blade steady, her breath uneven.
