The inner bailey was a maelstrom of shrieks and clashing blades as Seraphina, Tristan, and the unleashed fury of Magnus's primal form sought to batter their way through the endless tide of Lucian's profane minions. Brackish geysers of ichor fountained through the air, only to be consumed by the raging inferno of unholy energies swirling around the Alpha's bestial avatar.

Seraphina ducked and weaved, her sword leaving a contrail of gleaming afterimages as she sought to pierce the defenses of the twisted fiends surging all around them. Though their forms appeared fragile, diseased husks of their former selves, they moved with an unsettling swiftness and preternatural coordination born of whatever...