Before Berat's fingers could brush against Lyria, a suffocating chill spread through the air. It wasn't the winter cold—this was something far worse. A dangerous, unnatural pressure settled over the bonfire gathering, making the rowdy laughter die in an instant.
Lyria's head tilted slightly, her empty, icy eyes finally settling on Berat. Her gaze alone was enough to make even a seasoned warrior like him hesitate, but the alcohol in his blood dulled his instincts. He sneered, trying to regain his arrogance.
"What?" He chuckled darkly. "Don't tell me you're shy now? Come on, demon bitch, don't play hard to get—"
Before anyone could react, Lyria moved. She didn't lunge, didn't make a grand gesture—she simply lifted her hand and, in one fluid motion, grabbed Berat's outstretched wrist.
Then, with a sickening crack, she twisted.
"GURGHHH!"
