The moon had begun its slow crawl across the ink-black sky, half-shrouded by clouds that whispered of coming storms. In the distance, the howls of wolves echoed across the ridgelines—but the danger that approached didn’t wear fangs or claws.
It wore a charm. It wore velvet. It wore Xavier’s smile.
He stood atop the cliffside, a lone silhouette against the roaring sea below, his black coat fluttering like wings. Beside him, Nyra emerged from the mist, her aura crackling with magic barely contained. Since her dark mimicry ritual, she had grown more dangerous—and more unstable.
“She still resists,” Nyra muttered, brushing ash from her cloak. “Even when I wear her skin, they sense the difference.”
Xavier smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “They love her, not because of who she is. But
