He stood, spreading his arms, the sleeves of his robe flowing dramatically. He began the ritual again, weaving his hands through the air with theatrical flair. The words of the incantation rolled off his tongue, the language ancient, arcane, and heavy with forbidden meaning.
The mark on Ava's neck, that silvery crescent Lucas had given her in the heat of a moment, caught between anger and admiration, a confession he could not put into words, began to fade. Alaric smiled with satisfaction, eyes twinkling with dark triumph. "Goodbye, Lucas," he whispered.
*****
Lucas watched from the barred window as his soldiers stood tense, angry, and utterly done with diplomacy. Councilmen attempted calm discussions that no one on the receiving end was interested in. His pack didn't come to talk.
They came to take.
Lucas suddenly felt it—like a bullet to the chest.
