One Grand Magus.
Two Full Moons.
Eight Half Moons.
The group that emerged from the blizzard was no scouting party—this was an elite strike force. Their auras pressed against the frozen air like invisible blades, dark purple mist curling around their weapons.
"Where is she!" barked the Grand Magus at their head, his voice sharp through the mask that concealed his face.
Emery stood alone before the cavern mouth, the wind tugging at his cloak. His golden eyes shimmered faintly as he met their collective gaze. "That's interesting," he said with a faint smirk. "I was just about to ask you the same thing."
He tilted his head, glancing at the dozen magus who circled him like wolves. "Since you're all here, I suppose you know more than I do."
No reply—only cold silence. The Grand Magus gave a small gesture.
"Take him."
