The vast chamber seemed to hold its breath. The crystals that lined the walls pulsed faintly, their sickly green light casting long shadows across the smooth, glassy floor. The darkness at the edges of the room pressed in, waiting, watching, and hungering. Erebus stood at the center, his form shifting between shadow and light, his silver hair flowing despite the absence of wind, his molten gold eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
Ysolde stood at my side, her amethyst eyes blazing, silver light gathering in her palms. Runa had her sword raised, her face pale but determined, her injured arm forgotten in the face of what stood before us. The volunteers fanned out behind us, their torches flickering, their hands steady on their weapons, their faces masks of grim resolve.
But Erebus did not attack.
