The battlefield roared around him, but Ronan only saw one thing... her.
Blood pounded in his ears as he surged forward, tearing through the final wave of rogue defenders standing between him and Layla. His breath was ragged, his body bruised and battered, but he never slowed. His golden eyes locked onto hers across the war-torn field, the connection between them unbreakable even in the face of chaos.
Layla knelt on the ancient altar, her body still bound in darkly glowing chains. Her breathing was heavy, her power pulsing against the cursed bonds, struggling to break free. The Blood Moon bathed her in its eerie crimson glow, as if mocking her imprisonment.
A slow, cruel clap echoed through the air.
“Finally,” Gideon Blackthorne drawled, standing over his daughter like a victorious king
