W.I.L.D.
The Master of Evil leaned back against his throne, the smirk never leaving his face. A slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, and the shadows peeled from the walls like oil poured over stone. They twisted and stretched into forms both skeletal and serpentine, grotesque bodies dripping with smoke, eyes like hollow pits. A dozen. Two dozen. More. They circled like vultures, waiting for the signal to descend.
Cheyenne’s pulse thundered in her ears, but her body was already moving before thought caught up. The bond to Spirit tugged at her, ancient and sharp, instincts screaming to hunt. Her emerald eyes caught the flicker of the torchlight and seemed to blaze with it.
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