The cavern was deathly silent except for the faint crackle of magic still lingering in the air. The slavers were no more, their bodies strewn across the bloodstained stone floor. The once dimly lit chamber now carried an eerie glow from the remnants of the elves' celestial weapons, slowly fading into nothingness.
Lucas exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. It was over.
Or so he thought.
A strangled gurgle broke the silence.
Sylmira stood frozen in place, her bow still raised, her fingers trembling around the spectral string. The arrow had already been loosed, but something was wrong.
The mage—the man who had moments ago begged for his life—stood perfectly still.
His lips curled into a knowing smirk.
Then, his head lolled unnaturally to the side, his body convulsing violently as dark veins erupted across his skin. His flesh pulsed, as if something inside him was trying to crawl its way out.
Lucas felt his stomach twist. "The hell…?"
