One Fenrir, faster and meaner than the rest, saw an opening. It leaped. It didn't go for Raya; it went for me. It was mid-air, a blur of matted gray fur and teeth designed to crush gods, and for a split second, time did that annoying "slow-motion" thing.
I panicked. My "Lady Seraphine" training flew out the window, replaced by the raw, "I'm not dying twice" survival instinct of Ehra Marie.
"GET BACK!" I screamed.
I didn't have a sword. I didn't have a staff. I had a ring that tasted like starlight and a soul full of spite. I reached deep, deeper than the noble etiquette, deeper than the territory management, and grabbed every ounce of Qi in my body. I shattered it. I didn't just use it; I broke it, channeling the raw, jagged energy directly into that yellow stone on my finger.
The ring didn't just glow. It exploded.
