And then there was the wraith.
Chubby. Alias almost scoffed the first time he heard the name. A mistake. The wraith was old. Not in years, but in origin. A being born from a time when death itself had not yet learned its rules. Its shadows were precise, merciless, and terrifyingly efficient. Yet under her command, it behaved like a spoiled pet, arguing with her, sulking, demanding praise.
That, more than anything, unsettled him. Absolute power was common among legends. Absolute control was not.
Alias possessed nine mana circles, an achievement so rare it bordered on myth. He had mastered runic arrays capable of leveling cities, spells that could unravel souls. He had been feared. Revered. Obeyed.
And still, watching Lady Seraphine work, he felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
