Morrun sat slumped on the worn-out couch, his arms and legs tightly bound, no chance of escape.
He didn't even bother struggling. He knew that if Lyra'd left him here like this, then she knew he was no threat.
Morrun had been around long enough to recognize when he was outmatched and when it was smarter to wait.
Then it hit him—the heavy, metallic smell of blood seeping out from the bedroom.
Morrun's sharp senses caught the wet, sick sound of flesh being torn.
A chill slithered down his spine, but he stayed calm, calculating. That woman, with her reckless confidence, must've taken those potent strength-boosting herbs meant for level-nine Peculiars. She was only level seven; those herbs could have catastrophic effects on her.
A spark of ambition ignited in his eyes: She had rare artifacts, powerful items that could be worth the risk, if he could just find a way to grab them...
