The war tent was quiet.
Elena stood before the gathered commanders, her hand resting over the small swell of her stomach. Niegal stood beside her, face drawn tight, the Lion pacing just behind his silver eyes. Across the table, maps marked with Inquisition routes and strongholds were laid bare, blood-red ink smudging where her fingers pressed.
"The compound lies here," she whispered. Her voice was even, but beneath it simmered something terrible and ancient. "We will approach under the cover of night. I will cast the fog. The rains will mask us."
No one questioned her. They had stopped questioning long ago.
Alejandro leaned forward, grimacing slightly as he shifted his still-mending arm. "How close can we get before they notice?"
"We'll be inside before they smell a single drop of blood in the air," Niegal answered, his voice low and brutal. "If all goes as planned, the first thing they'll notice… will be fire."
Aurora kept her eyes on the map, jaw clenched. "And the children?"
"We get them out first," Elena said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Once they are safe-" she paused, her voice suddenly hollow, empty, reverberating with something more than human, "-no man or woman will live long enough to see morning."
That evening, the sanctuary's forces moved silently through the forested paths like ghosts born from the fog. Elena's magic curled around their ranks in coiling tendrils of violet mist, thick and cool to the skin, dampening all sound. Niegal, blade of Marohu strapped to his back, took point beside her, eyes glowing faintly with the Lion's patience.
And as if the world itself obeyed them now, the rain began to fall.
Soft at first, then steady. Enough to soak the trees and silence boots against earth. Enough to hide the coming storm in the hush of dripping leaves and rolling wind.
They made it to the edge of the Inquisition compound without alerting a soul. Protective wards shimmered like ink against the stone walls, but the sigils meant to repel witches and spirits wilted in the presence of the gods.
Elena and Niegal moved first, slipping through the gaps in the wards like knives through cloth.
Down. Down into the underbelly of the enemy stronghold, past cold stone halls and ancient chains, the breath of death curling around every torch flame.
When they reached the lowest dungeon, both of them stopped.
Elena's hand flew to her stomach.
Niegal let out a breath that turned into a growl.
The children.
Strung up.
Disemboweled.
Ten of them. Little bodies twisted in death.
Not a single one left breathing.
The silence that followed was not human. It was divine.
Elena's body lifted from the floor. Her scream tore through the compound like a hurricane's wail, and from her throat poured molten lava, burning through the bars and torches and the very oxygen in the air. Her garnet eyes narrowed into violet serpent slits, the tattoo on her arm and spiraling scars glowing with unbearable light. The blade of Boinyanel sang in her hand, thunder cracking not from the sky but from within the metal itself.
Niegal transformed in the blink of an eye, his figure doubling in size as the Lion rose in his body. Fur curled along his spine. His eyes blazed. Marohu became lightning in his grip.
They did not speak.
They did not weep.
They destroyed.
Walls fell. Stone cracked beneath their feet. Screams echoed briefly and then were cut short by fire, by blade, by sheer divine rage.
Upstairs, the commanders and soldiers felt it. The shift. The unholy wrath that was neither spell nor miracle- but reckoning.
Some soldiers fell to their knees and prayed. Others averted their eyes, unable to witness the fury of gods made flesh. Others watched, transfixed, tears running down their faces.
This was not justice.
This was not punishment.
This was vengeance.
Twenty minutes.
That's all it took.
The Inquisition compound was reduced to a scorched crater. Blood splattered over what stones remained, and the air hissed from the heat of what had once been men and women sworn to holy doctrine.
And then, silence.
Until a roar tore through the smoke.
Elena rose high into the air, her face radiant with lava light, her eyes fierce, terrible. She pointed her blade skyward- then brought it down, lightning cracking the earth where the last of the corpses lay. Nothing remained.
Nothing.
Niegal stood below her, the Lion's chest heaving, nostrils flaring, blood steaming off his skin.
And then—Elena descended. Slowly. Her mouth closed. Her eyes dimmed. The blade fell still.
The moment she touched earth again, her knees buckled.
Niegal caught her.
She collapsed against him, unconscious.
But what made his breath catch, what made his knees nearly follow hers, was what he saw as he held her:
Her stomach was glowing. Still.
And larger. Significantly larger.
It was more than two months now. More than four. Her womb looked nearly six months full.
Something ancient and sacred curled beneath the skin, and Niegal, despite everything, shivered.
Behind them, the army stared. Stunned. Mute. The myth of the Serpent and the Lion was no longer a tale whispered in fear.
It had become a warning. A prophecy.
And now, it had teeth.
They will have their due.