Seraphel stood perfectly still in what remained of the clearing, silver hair whipping in the wind she'd summoned. Ten paces separated her from Kragg—or what remained of him, corrupted beyond anything she'd seen in decades.
The orc warlord stared back with eyes that had become bottomless black voids, empty of everything that made someone living. His scarred face hung slack in a way that made her skin crawl, muscles relaxed even while standing upright. Living flesh didn't move like that. Dark mana poured off him in thick, oily waves that she could practically taste. Worse than the sight or smell was the recognition—this corruption matched the signature she'd tracked on that goblin boy, Byung. The same twisted energy. The same impossible origin.
