The screams of the Whispering Glades were not like the screams of people; they were the sound of reality itself tearing. As Lucien's white fire touched the silver birches, the air filled with a high-pitched, harmonic screeching. The bioluminescent mist, once a soothing balm, was instantly vaporized, replaced by an acrid, blinding smoke that smelled of burnt ozone and ancient memories.
Lucien sat atop his charcoal wolf, his face illuminated by the jagged, white flames dancing in his palms. He looked like a fallen sun, a beautiful and terrible deity of destruction.
"Stop it, Lucien!" I screamed, running toward the edge of the clearing.
