Chapter Fifty–Eight:
The air in the subterranean vault felt like it was thickening, turning from a stagnant mist into a heavy, suffocating weight. Vireon stood before Luna, his blood-woven tuxedo shimmering in the dim light of the gore-filled alcove. His expression was one of ancient, detached amusement.
"I was once like you," Vireon repeated, his British accent cutting through the humid silence. "An Apostle of the Tree."
Luna didn't lower her guard. Her claws remained extended, her Silver Will humming a low, defensive vibration through her marrow. "You have the wrong person," she snapped, her voice cold. "I don't know what you are talking about. What is an Apostle?"
Vireon stepped closer, his crimson eyes boring into hers with the intensity of a dying star. "Don't play coy, little wolf. Why do you think you, of all people, are able to see the mysterious forest? The place at the center of the underworld and the living... the Grey Realm."
