The altar chamber was a crucible of volatile, divine energy. The air was no longer merely oxygen; it was a pressurized mixture of ozone, ancient dust, and the metallic, sickly-sweet scent of a soul being unraveled.
The Shadow Elders—monstrous, spectral wolves with eyes like dead stars—continued to pace the perimeter, their translucent claws leaving glowing, necrotic gashes in the obsidian floor.
"Silence!" the lead Elder commanded. "The Balance has been desecrated. The Sun has bled into the Abyss, and the Abyss has tasted the Sun. You have birthed a World-Breaker."
They were looking at Gwen, their dead eyes reflecting her own golden aura. But Gwen was barely listening. Her wrist was still encased in Lucien's massive, gold-veined hand.
The contact was a violent symphony of light and shadow, her solar magic purring in a terrifying harmony with the necrotic rot that now fueled her former husband.
"Release her, Lucien," a voice thundered from the entrance of the catacombs.
