Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 75

Chapter 74: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (I)

LYRE

Life was a lot easier when I roamed free.

This strange urge I have to help Grace has pushed me to do things I haven’t done in centuries. Things I’ve almost forgotten about.

But some habits die hard—like my talent for making dramatic entrances.

The reinforced steel door crumples under my foot like it’s made of aluminum foil. Pathetic. Not even warded properly. The crash echoes through the underground chamber it guarded, and I step through the wreckage with practiced nonchalance.

"What the fuck—"

"Intruder!"

"Kill her!"

Same predictable script, different basement. I don’t bother wiping the boredom from my face as three young wolves lunge at me, all snarls and extended claws.

Amateurs.

I’ve been dealing with their kind when their great-great-grandfathers were still pissing on trees.

A flick of my wrist sends arcana pulsing through the concrete floor. The energy responds to my command instantly, gravity suddenly quintupling beneath their feet. All three slam face-first into the ground with satisfying thuds.

twist my fingers, condensing the air

protests turn to wide-eyed panic. Shifters always forget some of us breathe magic

corridor ahead stretches into darkness, lit only by intermittent bulbs, flickering like dying fireflies. The stench here is about what I expected—a nauseating cocktail of rotting meat, puddles of blood congealing along the packed dirt floor, unwashed bodies, and the product of their

I mutter to no one in particular as I stride forward. "Decent plumbing, too. Revolutionary concepts. More dungeons should have

two high along both walls. Inside each, ten to fifteen bodies crammed together—shifters ranging from infants to teenagers. Some whimper as I pass. Others stare with hollow eyes. There’s no hope when they see me

never

but this particular brand of cruelty never fails to ignite that dangerous pocket of rage I

always come out to oppress

grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber in the dim light. The sight twists

today, little one," I whisper,

pulse of familiar magic tingling against my skin. Distinct, unmistakable—like recognizing someone’s voice in a crowded room. It leads me to a heavy metal door at the corridor’s end, marked with symbols

again, she was

don’t bother with subtlety. Another kick, another crash, another doorway reduced to scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with sigils etched into the

pristine white dress, as if she’s headed to

"Still going for the creepy Victorian doll aesthetic,

face contorts with rage, her eyes

she’s bad at learning

Witch," she snarls, and I

"In the flesh."

her hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises

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