Clea had blocked the attack.
But she had not escaped completely unharmed.
Frey's sword had torn through the starry fabric covering her arm and managed to leave a shallow cut beneath it.
A trivial wound.
Yet it was enough for her husband and children to see the color of her blood for the first time in their lives.
It was said that the blood of the First Writer, Clea, was black.
Black like her eyes.
It was a rumor that had spread widely among the Writers, born from endless speculation over something none of them had ever witnessed.
Clea had never bled in battle.
And so ridiculous theories had begun to form.
Was her blood black?
Red like theirs?
Or did it possess some entirely different color?
At that moment...
The mystery was finally answered.
"He actually wounded her..." Abraham muttered in disbelief.
As for Clea...
The corners of her lips slowly rose into a terrifying smile.
A smile that sent a cold shiver down Frey's spine.
