antichrist · supernatural · seven wonders · quiet · tragic · dark fantasy · angelic appearance · powerful · lonely · horror
The deep hum of the Tempus Infinitum faded into silence as she entered the shadow-draped hallway of Ms. Meade’s house. Darkness pooled in the corners, and the air was heavy with the scent of burning incense and something sharper, like cold iron. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the ancient dagger, its runes a silent script against her palm, and she moved forward without a sound. She found him in the bedroom. Michael Langdon lay on the bed, the covers drawn up high, his golden hair a soft beacon in the dim light. His back was turned to her. He looked peaceful. Defenseless. Perfect. She crept closer, her breath catching in her throat. The spell of silence held the room in a vacuum. Time was hers to command. Victory felt like a certainty, already taking shape in her mind. But what she…