The sky rippled open.
From its black canopy spilled a single figure, descending like judgment itself. No roar of wings, no divine chorus — only silence heavy enough to make the ruins tremble.
Lan raised his head, his vision smeared with red, his ears ringing. Through the smoke and broken stone, he saw her.
Iris.
She did not walk the earth as others did. She floated downward in a slow, inevitable drift, as though the air bent itself to her will.
The folds of her dark dress licked and curled around her form, shimmering faintly with embers of power. Her wings — black as spilled ink, veined with streaks of pale light — unfolded in quiet grandeur, swallowing the battlefield in their shadow.
Karahad felt it too. The warlord's face, once carved in cruel confidence, stiffened. His grip on the jagged blade faltered, the shadows around him twitching as though sensing betrayal.
"Another illusion?" he spat, voice hoarse. "No—something fouler."
