The Death Dragon—his sister, his blood-bound shadow—stood draped in a gown of endless black. Today, she made no attempt to conceal what she was.
Her white hair, wild and untamed, cascaded down her back like fallen snow over obsidian cliffs, gleaming under the warped light of the hallway.
No enchantment dulled her presence. No illusion masked the truth. Her draconic horns curled back from her temples, bone-black and ridged with ancient runes—she didn't hide them today—symbols that throbbed faintly, not with magic, but with the memory of extinction itself. Her dress was ruthless elegance, split along the left to reveal a pale, perfect thigh strapped in black lace, the kind that whispered seduction with a blade hidden underneath.
She didn't walk—she prowled, looking like death sculpted into a goddess.
When Pyris spoke, it wasn't sound—it was command.
"Come here."
The world broke.
