Rhaegar stared ahead, his face a mask of grim resolve. The woman before him was no longer human—no longer even pretending to be. Althea had shed the last vestiges of her fragile disguise, and what remained was a creature born of darkness and malice.
Black veins spiderwebbed across her waxy, pale skin, cutting stark paths along her arms, neck, and face.
Her eyes, voids of burning darkness, held no trace of soul or sanity. Amid the ominous blackness of her form, her long, stark white hair whipped in the wind, a haunting contrast to her corrupted appearance.
"What have you done?" Rhaegar's voice was low, controlled, though his clenched fists betrayed the fury brewing beneath. His amber eyes burned with restrained rage as they locked on her grotesque form.
Althea smirked, the corners of her lips curling into a cold, arrogant sneer. Slowly, she spread her arms wide as if presenting her triumph, her gaze mocking. "What was necessary."
