The Lycan King’s Broken Mate
The air thickens around me, my heartbeat steady and strong, and everything I know about light comes alive within me.
Light pours from the cord. Not flame, not lightning—but pure, sharp, blinding white radiance that engulfs everything it touches. The bridge is bathed in light; the mist recoils, and the Dark Lord’s shadows retreat.
The black tendrils crawling toward us recoil, the dark matter cracking like glass. The Dark Lord steps back. His face, now visible for the first time, isn’t monstrous—it’s cold, like carved marble.
“You cannot deny me, child,” he says quietly, struggling against the light. “Your blood is born of mine. Your light is but the other side of what I am.”