Nyxara Rising
Fire raged above, magic detonated in sickening bursts, and the scent of blood—metallic, holy in its thickness—swallowed every breath.
Still, the Concord advanced.
Tall, obsidian-armored figures strode from the smoke, faces masked behind cold emblems stamped with that same maddening symbol she’d only ever seen in forbidden archives. No battle-cry. No reckless charge.
They already knew.
One stepped forward, voice carrying with chilling calm. “Nyxara Vale. White Wolf Matriarch. Genetic anomaly. Final correction.”
Something inside her shifted.
Not a dramatic shatter.
A quiet click—a lock sliding open at last.