Zayn sat cross-legged atop the carriage, his eyes half-lidded as the wind howled past him.
The night air was thick, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.
The clouds above churned, dark and heavy, threatening to crack open at any moment.
He glanced up. A storm was coming.
"Great."
Rain meant low visibility — which meant bandits, monsters, or whatever the hell else lurked out here would have an easier time sneaking up on them.
But honestly? It didn't matter.
If someone was dumb enough to attack him after what just happened, they deserved whatever came next.
For now, he had other things to focus on.
Soul Energy.
Zayn had power — that much he knew.
The Witch's Mark on his body, the ability to draw souls from the forge, the natural instincts honed from battle.
But raw power wasn't enough.
Control.
That's what separated the strong from the dead.
