The return journey through the spatial warp was instantaneous. One moment, the strike team was surrounded by the suffocating, humid stench of the corrupted jungle, and the next, their boots hit the cool, familiar marble floor of the villa's expansive living room.
Tygr released the magical tether with a heavy exhale, his silver-grey eyes scanning the perimeter. Outside the shattered panoramic glass doors, the apocalyptic nightmare had ended. Deprived of the twins' channelling and Fenice's rotting magic, the monstrous, purplish-black vines had entirely withered. The colossal stalks had crumbled into piles of fine, lifeless grey ash, which the gentle, salty ocean breeze was already sweeping away into the night.
The resort was safe.
Solis did not care about the ash or the broken glass. His entire universe was currently cradled in his arms. He carried Noir over to the plush, oversized sofa in the centre of the room, lowering his exhausted husband with the utmost care.
