The night had fallen like a velvet curtain, thick and suffocating, draping the Blackclaw estate in shadows. Every corner seemed to breathe, alive with the whispers of power, the tremor of magic, the low hum of anticipation that pulsed through the earth. Selara stood at the highest turret, silver veins faintly glowing beneath her skin, her Nightborne energy coiling and uncoiling like liquid fire. The wind whipped her hair across her face, carrying scents of pine, smoke, and blood, intertwining into a heady symphony that sharpened every sense she possessed.
