Lyra trembled with rage, a fury like none she had ever known surging within her. But she didn't know where it was coming from.
True, she was angry and felt humiliated—unable to move her body or command even the air around her. It was as if both her body and the wind bowed to a supreme master, utterly ignoring her like a whining child.
She flinched inwardly.
'A whining child? Where had that thought even come from?'
More terrifying than her rage or humiliation was the powerlessness—the fear. This man… this being… it felt as if she stood before a Saint... No, more than a Saint... way more than a Saint. No Saint had, and could ever reduced her to this pathetic state.
Still… even that didn't explain the primal, unfiltered rage boiling inside her. It wasn't born from humiliation or defeat. It was something deeper and older.
