Elizabeth's face contorted.
It wasn't a subtle change. It wasn't a simple hardening of expression. It was as if something too ancient to fit into human features had decided to emerge. Her skin seemed to stretch for an instant, the veins beneath the surface darkening like living roots, her red irises sinking into an abyssal hue that swallowed any trace of light. Her teeth lengthened slightly, not grotesque—but predatory. Elegant. Wrong. The air around her vibrated as if being compressed by an invisible force.
Her whole body trembled.
Not from weakness.
From rage.
A rage so fierce, so primal, that it seemed to come from an era before the very city that had dared to attack her. Her shoulders rose and fell with breaths too controlled to be natural. She clenched her fists with brutal force—strong enough that her nails pierced her own skin. Blood trickled between her fingers, thick and dark, dripping onto the cracked marble of the courtyard.
