He leaned in close, voice low and edged with something sharp.
"There's something wrong with them."
I glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the cloaked leader.
"I felt it when your aura flared," Fafnir continued, his tone grim. "When your core surged and everything cracked open. For a moment—just a moment—I sensed it."
"Sensed what?" I asked, heart already heavy with the answer.
He finally turned his gaze to me, voice hushed and iron-hard. "Demonic energy."
My breath caught.
"It was faint. Controlled. Buried beneath layers of masking magic," he said. "But it was there. Something old. Something hungry. When your magicore ruptured, it must've disrupted their shroud for a second. Like pulling back a curtain."
"Which one?" I asked, already dreading the reply.
"All of them," Fafnir said flatly. "Not just one. The cloaked leader most of all—but even the beastkin's aura had a stain. And the elf… there's rot beneath that elegance."
