The air between them crackled with abyssal energy, heavy with unspoken promises and undeniable finality.
Riven exhaled, slow and steady, as the spirit's mist coiled around her in restless anticipation. He had broken her resistance, had reached into the depths of her hatred and twisted it into something useful. Now, all that remained was to solidify her purpose—to forge her into a blade worthy of his hands.
She was no mere specter. No simple spirit to be shackled into a tool.
She was something far more dangerous.
Which meant he needed a weapon strong enough to bind her essence—a vessel that could hold her without breaking.
His fingers flexed, and with a flick of his wrist, the Staff of Ignis materialized in his grasp.
The crimson shaft gleamed under the moonlight, its deep, dragon-forged core pulsing faintly with warmth.
Riven's grip tightened around it.
