The smoke from the Blackwood Forest had not yet cleared, but the battlefield had fallen into a sickening, expectant silence. The air was no longer charged with the chaotic electricity of Lucien's Void transformation; instead, it was heavy with the scent of ozone, burnt pine, and the cold, metallic tang of the device in Viper's hand.
Gwen stood at the center of the clearing, her legs trembling, supporting the weight of a recovering Lucien. Every breath felt like drawing glass into her lungs. Across from them, perched like a vulture on a jagged branch, Viper held the detonator—a small, obsidian mirror of their destruction.
"The clock is ticking, my Queen," Viper purred, his voice amplified by the eerie stillness. "And I do so love a countdown."
Viper shifted his weight, looking down at Gwen with eyes that held no humanity—only the calculating coldness of a predator who had already won.
