The temperature in the chamber plummeted as a wraith—formed of sinister, translucent mystique tinted a spectral blue—emerged into view.
It glided forward like mist possessed, rippling with malignant intent.
Lugh watched with furrowed brows, unmoved while most others in the grand hall recoiled in astonishment.
The patriarch of the Cross family had begun with a spell unique to their bloodline. Many had expected him to crush his opponent through sheer force control, not resort to family-exclusive conjuration.
Almost simultaneously, Lyra's aura flared, flooding the space with invisible pressure as her long auburn hair began to levitate unnaturally—rising and writhing in the air like serpentine tendrils from some ancient myth.
The patriarch narrowed his eyes. Whatever hesitation or confusion he might have felt was instantly dispelled. The atmosphere snapped taut like a drawn bowstring, the tension growing brittle.
Then—motion.
