The corrupted mark pulsed faintly on the stone floor, its sickly green glow flickering like a heartbeat. Elara could not look away. The air around it felt wrong, heavy, suffocating, as if the shadows themselves were watching, waiting, breathing. The corridor seemed to shrink around them, the walls pressing inward with a cold, ancient awareness.
The torches along the walls flickered violently, their flames bending away from the mark as if repelled by its presence. The air tasted metallic, sharp, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Theron stood before her, shoulders rigid, his lycan clawing beneath his skin. His breathing was too fast. Too shallow. Too close to losing control. His aura pressed against her like a storm barely held back by a fraying thread, heat rolling off him in wave
