The black ink that had bled into the cabin floor did not coalesce into a monster. It rose with a fluid, unnatural grace, thickening and hardening until it took the shape of a man.
Lucien stood in the center of the room, his form wavering like a candle flame in a draft. He was translucent, his skin a patchwork of shifting shadows and glimpses of the man he used to be.
He didn't attack. He couldn't.
As soon as he materialized, Lucien crumpled to his knees, his hands clutching at his chest as if he were trying to hold his soul together. The "entanglement"—the curse that bound his life force to Gwen's—was a double-edged sword. Outside the range of her proximity, he was a wraith, fading into nothingness. Now, back in her presence, the sheer effort of existing seemed to burn him from the inside out.
Kaelen was on his feet in a heartbeat, his blade drawn, the steel glowing with a lethal, silver light.
