Both Caelthar and Ishtar were Nephilim elites, veterans of intrigue and survival who had never relied on a single lifeline. Their bodies were layered with artifacts—each one designed to use the moment things turned dire.
Ishtar moved first.
She flung a dull silver sphere behind them, her fingers snapping open as the artifact detonated midair. The metal shell dissolved into a billowing storm of distorted smoke, thick and iridescent, spreading rapidly through the sky. The mist did not merely obscure vision—it clawed directly at divine perception, fragmenting spatial awareness and flooding the senses with false echoes. Distances twisted. Directions overlapped. To any pursuer relying on divine sense, the world became a maze of overlapping illusions.
At the same time, Caelthar completed a precise sequence of hand seals.
A colossal sword unfolded.
