Shua.
The stem gave way effortlessly. No resistance. No weight. No curse.
No effort.
Strangely, none of the muck of the swamp clung to it. The petals were perfectly clean and unblemished. They shimmered faintly in the dim light, each blade-like petal a dark velvet black with a silver sheen that danced like moonlight over still water. The glow was subtle, not showy. But undeniable. The flower didn't feel magical. It felt fundamental.
As if the concept of death had sprouted its own emblem and chosen this single, fragile-looking blossom to carry it.
Damien turned it over in his palm, slowly.
The lotus was smaller than it had any right to be. A little larger than a human heart. Soft, weightless, deceptively delicate. Yet it had just been the anchor for a legion of undead horrors that could have slaughtered armies, creatures that even dragons avoided.
So much power.
In such a small vessel.
