The smoke had thinned to a tired veil when the heat came back—not with a hammer, not with a crack in the world, just a warmth at the edge of sight, like a forge door opened one notch.
"Unbound Soul."
It wasn't a roar. It wasn't a sermon. Just a voice leaning on its elbows.
Inigo didn't stand all the way. He let the M4 rest across his thighs, one palm on Lyra's wrist, the other on the rifle's receiver. "You back for seconds," he said, "or to complain about the service?"
A ripple—maybe laughter, if lava had a sense of humor. The Lord of Destruction stepped out of the ripple without the pageantry. Cloak of fire pulled close. Armor scorched and cracked, the bright seams breathing slower. He didn't come closer than shouting distance. He didn't need to.
"Your cannon," the Lord said, chin tilting toward the Black Dragon, "is rude."
"Thank you," Inigo said.
