Alira stepped forward, her movements sleek and deliberate. The air around her seemed to still—as if the world itself was holding its breath for the assassin's strike.
She didn't waste words.
One after another, potions met her lips—elixirs of haste, tonics of lethal precision, alchemical brews that sharpened her instincts to a razor's edge. Then, like Neal before her, she grasped the Berserk Elixir, its crimson liquid swirling with contained fury.
She drank.
The effect was instantaneous.
Her veins darkened beneath her skin, pulsing with violent energy. Her muscles coiled like springs under tension, her breath turning sharp and controlled. Unlike Neal's explosive transformation, hers was a silent storm—deadly, precise, humming with lethal intent.
But she wasn't done.
