PREVIEW

... e was no whistle—only pressure. The kind that made lesser demons grip their weapons tighter and glance toward the horizon with dry mouths.

Then four figures emerged.

They didn't run. They didn't posture.

They cut through the storm as if it parted for them.

Scael moved like a shadow between snowflakes. His insectoid frame gleamed wetly in the cold, plated in smooth, obsidian armour that curved like a sculpted exoskeleton. His tail, long and whip-thin, swayed behind ...

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