And Nyxsha howled, her voice a raw, painful cry that echoed through the courtyard, tearing from her throat like a wound reopening.
Bones cracked—her own—as her limbs stretched with a sickening pop, her fangs spilling past her lips in a grotesque elongation, her fur exploding in black flame that licked at the mist, her form twisting—monstrous, primal, a beast, her body shaking with the effort of holding back the flood of memory and rage.
She stood between Azareel and the incoming horde, snarling, her voice a guttural roar that vibrated through the stone, her claws digging into the earth as she braced herself, flames dancing along her fur like a crown of fury.
But she was shaking—because these weren't just monsters.
They were faces, etched in eternal accusation.
Some she remembered begging, their pleas echoing in her mind like ghosts.
Others she remembered choking, their final gasps a haunting symphony.
