The woman's face atop the wolf's body twisted into a smile both elegant and terrible. Nine silver-black tails unfurled like blades of crescent moons, each one radiating corrupt energy so thick it cracked the marble beneath their feet. The sound was deafening—like a choir of screams woven into the clash of thunder.
Shellia steadied her breath, her palms glowing faintly with lunar energy. Beside her, Daryon raised his hand, summoning a surge of dark magic laced with the silver blessing of Erymoon. It didn't look like corruption anymore—it shimmered with a refined edge, a controlled storm.
Isyra's staff burned with white-silver moonlight. "Lady Shellia," she called, her voice steady, "this is no ordinary beast. Each tail carries a fragment of demonic will. Cut them, and you cut her strength."
["Easier said than done!"] Sylas barked in her mind, his pale-blue eyes flaring. ["Do you feel that pressure? It's like frost meeting fire—I can barely breathe."]
