The words slithered from Esme's mouth, distorted—two voices speaking as one. Hers… and the beast's.
"You know nothing of what's buried in this blood."
Lenora managed a snarl, teeth bared, but her hands were losing strength. She threw Lenora back like a rag doll.
The impact cracked the earth beneath her, dust flaring around her body. The moment stretched, tense and still.
Then slowly, with menace in every movement, Esme began to walk forward—each step heavier, slower, like a predator preparing the kill.
"Get up," the beast commanded, voice molten steel. "Let's see if your blade still wants to dance… or beg."
The ground held its breath.
Lenora lay crumpled where she fell, her lungs hitching as she blinked through the haze of dirt and disbelief. Her hands trembled against the soil—powerless. For the first time in years, she tasted fear not as an observer but as its prey.
