POV: Elena The air in the temple didn't just go cold; it vanished, replaced by a vacuum of pure, necrotic silence that made the marrow in my bones feel like liquid lead. I stared at the woman stepping out of the altar’s shadow, my heart thudding a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. She was a walking blasphemy—a reflection of myself, from the dark waves of her hair to the silver lightning mapping her skin, but her eyes were void of color, two flat, milky orbs that held the chill of a thousand graves. "Elena, stay behind me," Silas rasped, his voice dropping into that lethal, low-frequency rumble that usually made the concrete walls of Vane Tower groan. He stepped in front of me, his massive frame a shield of solid, vibrating muscle, but I could feel the jagged spikes of his terror through the bond. His Alpha fire was struggling, flickering like a guttering candle against the heavy, oily pressure of the woman’s presence. "You brought a
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