As my last words hung in the air, Rowan bolted for the door. His terror was palpable—sweat glistened on his forehead as he stumbled toward the exit, desperate to escape.
I wasn't finished with him.
With a flick of my wrist, flames erupted along the curtains lining the hall, forming a blazing barrier. Rowan skidded to a halt, his face illuminated by the orange glow.
"Going somewhere?" My voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried through the crackling of fire.
The smoke began to curl toward the ceiling, creating an eerie atmosphere as I walked toward him with measured steps. My anger wasn't the explosive, uncontrolled rage of my youth—it was cold, calculated, honed over years of pain.
"Elara, don't!" Seraphina called from behind me, her voice tight with worry.
I felt someone grab her arm—Julian, his voice low but clear in the tense hall. "Let her handle this. You have no idea what she's capable of."
He was right. None of them did.
