Lirazel followed in silence, her footsteps light yet restless, as if her body couldn't decide whether it wanted to walk, float, or coil around the man before her.
Her crimson eyes stayed fixed on Nolan's back, that infuriatingly casual, unremarkable posture of a mortal man who walked like he knew things even the heavens wouldn't dare whisper.
She chewed on her lip, not from seduction—this time—but from growing disquiet.
Earlier, back at the villa, she had watched him kill the spawn.
It was that instant! It was that easy for him!
No ceremony. No invocation. No summoning glyphs drawn in the blood of sacrifices.
Just… a machete. A mundane, pitifully crude weapon.
One that he gave her to inspect, no less. She had run every detection incantation she could recall—those taught by her sisters, her mother, and even the obscure techniques from the Withered Palace in the 8th Realm.
