Eryndor’s breath quickened as the shadows around Lyria deepened, swirling with an unnatural force. The figure before her was no longer the woman she had fought before. Lyria had transcended death, her form an embodiment of the very darkness Eryndor had tried to resist.
The runes pulsed in Eryndor’s veins, a sharp contrast to the creeping chill in the air. She could feel the power within her, but now it felt different—more volatile, more alive. She steadied her breath, meeting Lyria’s eyes, which burned with a cold, eternal fire.
“You’re not alive,” Eryndor said, her voice firm, but her heart racing. “You’re something else. What have you done?”
Lyria’s lips twisted into a smile, one filled with contempt and an unsettling sense of satisfaction. “I have become more than you can imagine, Er
