Cold...That was the first thing Siron felt. A cold that didn't stem from temperature, but from the absence of life itself, creeping from his gripped ankle, spreading through his body like poison.“Ron!” Kit shouted, his voice panicked.Siron screamed, trying to pull his leg free. The hand, made of shadow and thick black smoke, felt solid and strong, clutching tightly. Every tug only tightened the grip, piercing down to the bone. From the tips of the smoky fingers, he could feel, hunger. A vacant, primal desire to consume everything alive.Siron’s mother rushed forward, stepping on the shards of her destroyed pendant. “Let go of my son!” she cried, but she hesitated, having no defense left to approach.Morat, who had seemed shaken earlier, now stood tall. His red eyes glowed with a new intensity, yet it wasn’t anger Siron saw in them, but… recognition. A familiarity.“That is the Altar Keeper,” Morat growled, his voice humming like distant thunder. “My curse woke it. Our blood merged
Last Updated : 2025-12-05 Read more