.
.
.
Veil growled.
The night pulsed with his hunger. A beastly, viscous aura slid across the broken battlefield, threading itself into the shattered stones, the blood-soaked mud, the groans of injured men, and the dying warmth of the Empress's throne. His shadow expanded—not outward like a wave, but downward like a root, digging into the cracks of the world.
He knew now.
From that one clash—just a push—they had revealed too much. Too much resistance. Too much purity. Too much light.
So he adapted.
Veil no longer fought like a man. He moved like an infection, tendrils of darkness worming their way around the arena, seeping past defenses, circling the two Primes still standing over their Empress.
And still she breathed—barely. Her wounds from the fall were deep, her ribs crushed beneath golden armor, her lungs heaving shallow gasps as the healers behind her poured in whatever remained of their mana, fingers trembling over her warped flesh.
