On the battlefield of bones and withering roots, death itself walked toward them.
The woman with purple hair moved with slow, unhurried steps, as if the world had all the time she needed. Her hair flowed behind her in rich waves, a deep amethyst that caught the sickly gray light of the sky. Black horns curled back from her temples, sleek and polished, like a twisted crown.
Her figure was voluptuous, every line of her body an intentional weapon.
She wore a tight black corset that hugged her waist and lifted her chest, strips of dark fabric crossing her torso and leaving hints of pale, flawless skin exposed. A high-slit skirt of shadowy cloth wrapped around her hips, revealing long, toned legs that ended in heeled boots. Dark gloves climbed to her upper arms, and each step she took seemed to pull at the gaze of anyone watching.
Any ordinary man would have his lust stirred just by looking at her.
