There was no trace of mana. None at all.
Which was strange—deeply strange. Even the dead released some residual energy. A fingerprint of their essence he could harness into magical energy. But here? Nothing. The air around Lirienne's broken form was barren, silent.
Lugh's eyes flicked between the crumpled figure of Lirienne and the fleeing shadow vanishing beyond the shattered window.
They were forcing him to choose.
A shame.
Lugh wasn't a regular person.
From the canopy of the woods, three owls spiraled upward, wings slicing through the night air in practiced silence. Their golden eyes fixed on the escaping figure.
Lugh had no intention of letting the culprit get away.
But first, Lirienne.
He walked over to her body, each step echoing against the polished floors now littered with broken vases, shards of glass, and scattered remnants of once-luxurious furniture.
