Chapter 45 – Gathering the Storm
The rain over the Whispering Woods did not dare touch Aria Blake anymore. As she stepped down from the shattered threshold of the Temple of the Forgotten, the downpour sizzled into thick clouds of white steam a foot above her head, wrapping her in a ghostly, predatory shroud.
The gold feather-like lines permanently etched into her pale skin pulsed with a steady, blinding warmth. Her solid, incandescent white eyes swept over the courtyard, where dozens of blood witches, rogue vampires, and hybrid outcasts remained on their knees, their faces pressed against the mud in absolute submission.
"Stand up," Aria commanded. Her voice was no longer that of the orphaned outcast from a forgotten village. It carried the ancient, resonant timber of the Phoenix mantle,
