She was beyond shocked when she turned around and saw Zyren standing there.
He had his heavy black coat draped over his shoulders once again. But it was his eyes—those blazing crimson eyes—that truly made her blood run cold.
In his right hand, he held a sword she had ever seen before: long, sleek, and entirely black, like the void itself had been forged into steel. From the tip of the blade, a dark shadow leaked and slithered along the ground like smoke with weight, writhing at his feet like something alive.
His face was a mask of fury.
And yet, he hadn't moved. Not yet.
But his rage was unmistakable, pulsing from him like heat from a wildfire, and Aria knew without a doubt that if she had dared to take a wrong step—if she had so much as said the wrong thing—he would have strike her. She wouldn't have even had the time to scream.
