Eli stood beside Ian in an instant, his form almost too still—like even the air feared to move near him.
"You did good," Eli said quietly, his golden eyes watching Ian without emotion. "But stop now. This is already going to cause a mess with the church."
The crowd hadn't dared breathe since Joras' body hit the sand, his soul devoured like an offering to something older than death.
The arena—the city—was trembling on the edge of hysteria. Eli's words, calm and clear, should've anchored the moment.
They didn't.
Ian looked up at him slowly, gaze distant and feral. His gray eyes glowed faintly still, not with magic, but with hunger—a necrotic craving that saw through flesh and into soul.
"You reek of power and demon blood," Ian whispered, voice frayed like an echo clawing out of a pit. "Your soul... will be worth a thousand others."
Eli's brow twitched. "What did you say?"
And then, in less than a breath, Ian was there—his hand smashing against Eli's chest.
