The battlefield was a labyrinth of chaos.
But for Isolde Blackheart, it had become something far worse.
A nightmare.
Not one of fire or fury. But one of absence. A horror shaped by the hollow impression of something she couldn't quite perceive.
Another blow.
It slammed against her ribs, fast and sharp—too sharp. She twisted instinctively, bracing for a follow-up, but there was nothing. No flicker of movement. No visible shape. Not even a sound.
Her fingers twitched.
Her eyes flared with golden light as she activated a spiritual eye technique passed down through generations of the Blackheart family. Designed to trace movement and anticipate trajectories, the skill had never failed her in battle.
Until now.
The glowing rings around her pupils faded as swiftly as they came. The skill yielded nothing. No direction. No data. Nothing to analyze.
Her eye narrowed. Her jaw clenched.
"I'm under attack," she whispered under her breath. "It's most likely Reese. Don't forget."
