The Great Cathedral of the Blackfang Stronghold was no longer a place of holy vows; it was a theater of carnage. The violet fire unleashed by Sienna still licked at the ancient stone pillars, casting dancing, demonic shadows against the walls. The air was a suffocating cocktail of incense, ozone, and the copper tang of blood.
In the center of the chaos, Lucien lay sprawled on the cold marble steps of the altar. His ceremonial black armor was cracked, and the black-glass dagger—the fang of the Void-wyrm—lay discarded nearby, still dripping with a liquid that smoked as it hit the floor.
"Lucien!" Gwen's voice was a jagged shard of glass. She crawled toward him, her knees scraping against the stone, ignoring the heat of the dying magical fires.
