Scathach reappeared where she had left Scarlet, Ouroboros, Tiamat, and Strax, the rift in the air closing behind her with an almost imperceptible whisper. In her hands, she carried Hermes' two feet, still attached to the divine boots, now torn from the messenger with brutal violence. Without ceremony, she threw them onto the stone floor with a sharp thud, the impact echoing through the silent ruins.
The boots, sacred symbols of the god's power, lay there like macabre trophies—relics of a battle no one dared forget. The golden glow that had once enveloped Hermes now seemed tarnished, a wounded and dimmed light, silent witness to Scathach's ancient fury.
She took a few steps back, her gaze sweeping over the small group in front of her. Scathach's eyes found Strax, the young warrior, who slept peacefully in Ouroboros' lap. The ancient dragon maintained a protective posture, its scales glistening softly in the dim light, while its rhythmic breathing lulled the boy to sleep.
