The runes glowed brighter now.
The witches' chants rose and fell like distant ocean waves, quiet but unbreakable, echoing softly through the fractured hall. Blood brushed across the marble in thin arcs as Serah moved her brush with shaking precision, sweat and tears dripping down her chin to mingle with the crimson lines. Greta stood over her, iron chains drifting like silent sentinels in the flickering gloom, whispering quiet prayers in an old tongue only she remembered.
Lucifer stood silent near the edge of the circle, his white hair drifting softly around his pale, bloodstreaked face. Francisca's limp body rested against his chest, her tails curled faintly in death's stillness. His red eyes burned quietly as he scanned the hall—taking in the witches, the family heads gathering at the broken gates, the hunters tending to the wounded.
Then his gaze narrowed.
His aura pulsed faintly, flickering crimson across the marble floor.
"Where is she…?" he whispered.
