A faint, ghostly miasma drifted around her—yet there was nothing savage about it.

She looked like a spirit maiden who had stepped straight out of the underworld.

She was Lydia Wraithmoor, the Ghost Clan’s princess.

A black longsword rested in her hand.

The aura surrounding her was vast as the sea, and her cold gaze locked onto Skylar. The killing intent in her eyes was so sharp it was almost tangible.

“You think you can touch him?”

Her voice was cold enough to cut bone, each word deliberate and heavy.