The shadows swirled around Erebus like a living storm, darkness gathering in his palm, the light around him dimming until he was little more than a silhouette against the pulsing green glow of the crystals. His molten gold eyes blazed with an intensity that seemed to pierce through me, through the chamber, through the very fabric of the Rift itself. The temperature in the room had dropped so low that my breath misted before me, each exhale a small cloud that dissipated into the darkness.
I stood my ground, the ember blazing in my chest, golden light spilling from my hands. Runa was beside me, her sword raised, her face pale but determined, her injured arm forgotten in the face of what stood before us. Ysolde had stepped forward, silver light gathering in her palms, her amethyst eyes fixed on the figure who had imprisoned her for a thousand years. The volunteers fanned out behind us, their torches flickering, their weapons ready, and their faces masks of grim resolve.
