The night was fire and ruin. The Thorne Estate bled red, its walls cracked and its wards torn open. Garrick's body lay sprawled on the balcony, unmoving, blood still dripping in sharp, steady lines.
Eron Thorne saw nothing else.
His scream wasn't just a sound—it was a shattering. Windows across the estate blew out. Wards ruptured. The very air twisted as his aura detonated outward, a storm of red-gold fire that clawed at the sky.
His sword burned brighter, heat spilling off it in waves strong enough to bend the marble under his boots. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, raw with grief.
"LUCIAN!"
He lunged.
The world broke under his step, the balcony cracking like dry bone as he launched himself into the air, his blade raised overhead. He swung down with a force that could carve mountains in half.
Lucian didn't flinch. His fortress of black stone groaned beneath him as he raised his shield—constructed steel humming with veins of light.
The strike landed.
