Ezra floated high above the battlefield, a lone sovereign overlooking a storm of his own making.
Below him, chaos reigned.
The once-great Daydream Court and the Elder Council tore each other apart with blind savagery, their sophistication and civility crumbling into pure instinct and survival.
Light clashed against blood, fire against darkness, screams ripping through the walls of the Ark.
Ezra's golden eyes, flecked with black from the depth of his Authority, narrowed in silent judgment.
And then, Priya fell.
In a desperate, furious final attack, she unleashed a devastating surge of magnetic energy, collapsing a corner of the Ark's dome. Two Elders who had been caught within her gravitational death spiral were crushed into paste with her.
Ezra exhaled once, calmly.
Then he reached deeper into the weave.
He found the threads that marked the Eighth Ring vampires, those rare few who still stood proudly among the carnage, and he pulled.
The threads snapped.
