Grayson planted himself in front of Mailah, his posture shifting into that of a man guarding a treasure against the entire world. He didn't look back; he didn't need to. His entire focus was a physical weight, fixed like a spear point on the figure that moved across the gray stone with a haunting, liquid grace.
The intruder wore robes that seemed woven from the very fabric of moving darkness, the fabric folding and refolding upon itself in a way that swallowed the strange, flickering violet light of this desolate landscape. It carried no weapon—no blade, no staff, no charm. It made no sound at all. Even its footsteps, which should have clicked against the barren plain, failed to stir the air or send a single vibration through the ground.
Mailah had faced terrors before—the cold, calculating cruelty of Valerius, the brute force of Theron, the haunting, hollow stare of the exiles. Yet, as she watched the shadow approach, a new and sharper dread settled into the pit of her stomach.
