Markos's pulse pounded in his ears. The woman stood beside Emilio, close — too close. Her presence was unnatural, her movements too smooth, too deliberate, like a specter woven from smoke and deceit. Yet Emilio acknowledged her, listened to her as if she were real.
But Markos knew better. This was another illusion. Another trick meant to keep Emilio bound, distracted, vulnerable.
He had just torn through one deception. He would not be fooled again.
Markos swung down from his horse, his boots sinking into the snow. His breath came in measured exhales, steam curling into the frigid air. He would free Emilio. He would break this last falsehood apart with fire and lightning.
But Emilio did not look at him. His focus remained locked on the serpent, his stance tense and unwavering, blade poised for another strike. And the woman — she, too, ignored Markos. As if he were the illusion, the ghost haunting the battlefield.
