The night had not yet healed from Kaelion's storm. Smoke drifted in ragged curtains across the ruined ridge, rocks still glowing from the lightning strikes, the stench of ozone sharp enough to burn the lungs.
Merlin crouched amid the rubble, blood dripping from his lips, fingers still smeared with blue ichor. He traced that ichor onto his chest like a rune, a war mark. Every breath hurt, his ribs screaming, but pain had become an old friend—one he knew how to wield.
The demi-god had left, but the sky still whispered with his presence, like thunder unwilling to depart.
"Not gone," Merlin muttered to himself. "Never gone. He'll circle back. Arrogance always does."
And he was right.
The air hummed again. Sparks crawled along shattered stone. A shape rippled back into existence—Kaelion, unbowed, unshaken, fury burning behind his silver hair. His arm, still seared where Merlin's staff had struck, glowed faintly blue. His pride demanded blood.
