With the heavy abyssal collar biting into the delicate flesh of her neck, the suppression runes pulsed with a steady, malevolent crimson glow.
Her connection to the world's ambient mana was completely dead.
Her magic felt like a frozen, hollow pit in her chest, draining the strength from her limbs and leaving her physically weak, spiritually crippled, and defenseless before the three men looking down on her.
Jack mounted the shallow marble steps of the dais.
His pace was slow, each click of his leather heels against the stone sounding like the strike of an executioner's hammer in the quiet hall.
He stopped two paces before the kneeling Queen, looking down at her with his hands resting loosely in his coat pockets.
His heterochromic eyes held no anger, triumph, or pity.
Only the cold, clinical detachment of an apex predator observing vermin that had outlived its usefulness remained.
Beside the central gilded throne, King Maelor remained standing.
