[Emma's POV]
The echo of that ancient, chilling voice—“He’s coming.”—didn't fade so much as it seeped into the very stones of the ballroom, a psychic stain that promised an end to all things. The brothers were staggering to their feet, groaning through the fresh bruises and aches, their bodies a testament to the ritual’s violent backlash. The blood-red map of Damon’s mountain fortress and the stark, fiery numbers of the countdown—48:00:00—still hovered in the air, a brutal, undeniable truth. We had a target. We had a deadline. And we had a warning from a power so old it made the concept of fear feel new.
There was no time to breathe, to plan, to grieve.
A sound tore through the manor, a high, crystalline shriek of tormented energy that felt like needles driven into our eardrums. The air
