Elena bolted upright in bed with a violent gasp, eyes wide and glassy with stormlight.
A protective hand flew to her stomach. It was glowing again, faintly, the shape of the coiled serpent writhing just beneath the skin, as if watching what she had seen. Her other hand clutched her chest as she heaved, almost retching, the horror of the vision still coiling like bile in her throat.
Niegal stirred beside her, voice rough and thick with sleep. "What is it?" He reached for her, sliding a palm over her belly, anchoring her in the storm. "Is it the baby?"
She shook her head, eyes unfocused, jaw clenched. "It's her. Siobhan."
Niegal froze. His fingers tensed over her stomach, but he said nothing.
Elena's voice came low, bitter, cracking like lightning on stone. "She's trying to kill our child before they even breathe."
The serpent within twisted in fury. Her gut clenched with divine heat.
She nearly vomited again.
"We need a war council," she growled, hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were hard, distant, calculating. Her voice no longer belonged to only her.
"NOW."
Two hours later, the war tent stood at full capacity.
Storm banners billowed in the hot breeze as the generals filed in. Alejandro sat stiffly, arm still bandaged, jaw tight from the healing fracture. Aurora stood tall at his side, eyes flitting with worry between the people and the maps, the scrolls, the mounting reports of horror.
At the long table's head, Elena and Niegal sat together with Esperanza.
He could hardly look Alejandro in the eye.
His shame, his haunted guilt, clung to him like smoke from a battlefield pyre.
Alejandro didn't say a word. But when Niegal's trembling hand briefly reached for the hilt of Marohu to steady himself, Alejandro set his good hand over his brother-in-law's. Firm. Quiet.
A truce. At least, for now.
Elena squeezed Niegal's other hand beneath the table. She was burning. And the serpent was watching. Esperanza had her favorite dolly in her lap, eyes wide and sharp. She took in every word spoken, some generals whispered she was too solemn for a girl her age.
They listened. Towns burned. Priests hanged. Children missing.
Mothers with empty arms crying at their gates, begging for help.
The Inquisition was escalating. No longer afraid to make a statement. They had even dared to desecrate one of the old shrines, Saintess Yidali's, dragging the altar to the street and slaughtering a family atop it, carving HERESY into the stones in blood.
Then came the report that shattered her restraint.
Children taken from the fishing villages along the coast. Ten of them. Bound. Dragged into the night.
One of them had Esperanza's favorite doll clutched in her hand when they found the body of the woman trying to save them. A doll made by Elena's own hands. A copy.
The hissing started low in her throat. Her pupils split, becoming slits.
The room chilled, but the ground quaked.
Thunder cracked across the sky in a single, splitting roar, despite the bright, cloudless blue outside.
Niegal gripped her hand tighter. "Elena-"
Her voice dropped an octave. A soft chorus of tones hummed beneath her words. "I will lead the charge myself."
She stood, belly forward, like a priestess pregnant with lightning. Her scars glowed. Her skin shimmered with scales beneath the neckline of her dress. Her eyes flared a terrible violet.
"We will bring the children home. And every man who laid hands on them will scream."
No one argued.
They couldn't.
They had just glimpsed the full wrath of Guabancex stirring behind her mortal bones.
Back in their cottage, the candlelight flickered. The wind outside howled, hissing through the cracks in the windowpanes.
Niegal sat across from her, running his hands through his hair. Pale. Sweating.
"Elena," he begged, voice ragged. "What if it's a trap? Think of the child. Think of Esperanza. Think of us."
Her eyes softened, briefly.
Then something else answered.
A voice older than oceans.
"My vessel understands," it said through Elena's lips, her pupils shimmering into slits once more, "but my consort does not?"
Niegal recoiled slightly. Not in fear, but in shock.
It wasn't just that the voice wasn't hers. It was that it was right.
And it knew him. Knew every aching doubt in his chest, every protective instinct warring with the beast rising in his own soul.
He had been claimed. Branded in fire. And he had not yet accepted it.
The lion within him stirred in agitation.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to beg her to stay.
But something deeper, more ancient, growled from within.
Go with her. Die with her, if you must. She is yours, and you are hers. No god will come between you.
He stared at her glowing form, hand again cradling her womb, and saw the edge of something unholy, terrifying… and beloved.
He sank to his knees before her.
And kissed the back of her hand.
"I'll stand at your side," he whispered, "until the last breath leaves my body."
A flicker of warmth passed through her, both serpent and woman. Her human heart clenched.
"I know," she murmured.
They rested their foreheads together.
For now, there was no lion. No serpent.
Only two souls trying desperately to love each other through the fire.