Chapter 55
The beast was closing in.
Pio couldn't see, but even a blind fool would know he was alone—alone with death itself. The snarling echoed in his ears, and instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to survive. But he couldn't. Not without his glasses. Not with the blur that twisted the forest into a shadowy void.
He dropped to his knees and curled into himself, trembling.
Then—a silence.
But not peace. The air rippled with tension. Then came the clash—steel against fang, flesh against claw. A battle. Fierce. Brutal. He could hear it all: the growls, the grunts, the slicing wind of a blade. Then, silence again.
Footsteps.
A blurry figure approached, kneeling beside him. A hand placed something in Pio's palm. Cold. Familiar.
His glasses.
With trembling hands, he slipped them on—and the world snapped into focus. Standing before him, bloodied but unbowed, was Ronan—expression unreadable, eyes like storm clouds.
"You... saved me," Pio whispered, still shaking.
