The moon was a cold, indifferent witness in the sky. Alaric dragged Zylle Mordan's limp, powerless body from the cratered field, his grip firm and unforgiving on her arm. She stumbled, her legs barely able to support her, her mind a shattered landscape of disbelief and primal terror.
He didn't speak. The silence was a weapon in itself, a suffocating blanket of dominance that left no room for protest or plea. He moved with a swift, purposeful stride, pulling her along like a spoil of war.
They flew. A brief, disorienting surge of wind magic, and the ruined farmhouse vanished, replaced by the glittering lights of Lysandra. He landed not at the Bellerose estate, but in a secluded courtyard of the Royal Palace itself, now under Ondine's absolute control.
He dragged her through silent, opulent corridors, the few guards they passed bowing deeply, their eyes carefully averted. They knew better than to question Queen Ondine's… special guest.
