Eryndor’s breath hitched as the chamber erupted into violent light. The runes carved into the walls crackled with energy, their ancient power surging like rivers of molten magic. Her palm burned fiercely, the blue rune flaring to life as if answering Lyria’s crimson mark.
The sorceress moved with an unsettling grace, her molten gold eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “You’re stronger than I anticipated,” she said, her voice a melodic hum that barely masked her menace. “But strength without control is meaningless.”
Eryndor tightened her grip on her dagger, ignoring the tremor in her hand. The weight of Lyria’s presence was suffocating, her power thick and oppressive in the air. Yet, beneath the fear, a spark of defiance flared within her.
“You talk too much,” Kaelen snapped, stepping
