Kaelion flew like a wound torn open across the horizon.
His body blurred with lightning, rage scorching the air itself. Every strike of his power left scars in the clouds, but none of it burned away the shame clinging to him like tar.
He had been chained.
He had been wounded.
By mortals.
Every pulse of his divine heart screamed for vengeance. His silver hair, still sticky with ichor, whipped in the wind as his thoughts spiraled darker, deeper.
The old man first.
Merlin. His cracked lips and vile laugh. The demi-god imagined ripping the sorcerer apart slowly, stripping flesh from bone, keeping his tongue alive just long enough to scream blasphemies before silence claimed him forever.
Then the women.
The young one—blue haired one, with her spear and her foolish grin. He would make her kneel, break that pride, turn the fire in her eyes into ash.
