The armies of Storm and Lion cut down anything that stood in their path. They did not speak. They did not negotiate.
They annihilated.
By the time they reached the outer wall of Port Clairy, the skies had blackened. Niegal halted only long enough to feel the Lion rise fully inside him. Hot, burning, divine.
She is calling.
Hurry. There's no time.
He leapt the gate like a beast unchained, a silver blur streaking through the air, lightning cracking beneath every footfall. Magic bled from his pores. His blade, Marohu's Wrath, howled with each swing. Every militant-priest, every loyalist, every Inquisitor foolish enough to oppose him, was obliterated.
Above ground, on the square:
Elena was dragged through the marble halls and out into blinding light. Her head lolled, vision smeared in red. Blood and fluid slicked her thighs. Her gown was soaked. Every contraction slammed through her body like an axe. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Only scream.
They hauled her into the city square. A grotesque scaffold of wood and twisted iron stood before the cathedral steps, with a crude altar lashed together in mockery of the old ways. Atop it: chains. Timber. And the dead-eyed statue of Saintess Yidali, watching.
Inquisitors forced every man, woman, and child of Port Clairy from their homes. Children clung to parents. Elders trembled. No one spoke.
This was not divine.
This was blasphemy.
Some wept. Others prayed. Not to the Saintess-
but to any god, any force, to stop this cruelty.
They chained Elena's wrists above her head, stretching her upright, knees buckling. Her ankles were bound wide, fixed in place with rusted hooks. To expose her. To humiliate her.
Her labor pains echoed through the square like prophecy.
The serpent within her hissed one last time, long and low.
She was calling. The Lion was near.
Niegal surged forward.
He felt her agony in his chest. The bond crackled like thunder in his veins.
I'm coming, mi Doña. Just hold on-
He was pure instinct now, divine and bloodlusted, wrathful and righteous.
Every strike cleaved flesh from bone. His roar shook spires. Even the Church's sacred bells shattered.
Siobhan stepped onto the altar. She wore crimson vestments soaked in cursed oils, a silver dagger in her hand.
The same blade she had tried to curse Elena with so many times before.
Elena snarled, defiant through tears.
But she was too weak to move. Her body strained under the weight of labor and chains.
She didn't hear the words.
Only the blade slashing through her abdomen.
It was agony like no other.
The snake screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
The ground trembled. Clouds cracked open. Rain began to pour, but not fast enough. Not enough to cleanse what had just been done.
Cursed blood poured from the altar, sizzling, steaming against the holy wood.
Elena's vision blurred. Her lips trembled. Her limbs twitched.
And then-
a cry.
A baby.
Her baby.
Ripped from her body.
She screamed, but it wasn't Elena anymore.
The serpent rose, possessing her in death-throes, fury, grief. Her chains snapped. She reared-
But fell.
The blood loss was too great.
Her body collapsed, twitching, breath raspy, eyes barely open.
A torch was thrown at her feet.
Flames licked up the timber.
Siobhan held the crying child aloft like a prize, blade raised to slaughter the newborn in front of the silent crowd.
And that was when Niegal arrived.
He did not hesitate.
He didn't speak.
He tore off Siobhan's arm at the elbow.
Cradled the child close.
And roared.
The sound shattered glass. It cracked the altar beneath his feet. Thunder answered him.
Siobhan laughed, even as she bled out, her mask slipping sideways.
"Choose, my son," she gasped. "Your bastard or your whore."
The serpent shrieked.
The rain fell harder. Steam rose in coils from the altar.
The flames surged.
Elena blinked, blood thick on her tongue. Her final sight:
Niegal, roaring in fury, as he tore off Siobhan's head.
Her child, their child, screaming against his bloodstained chest.
And then-
a thunderclap.
Mother and child vanished.
Below, in Port Clairy's streets:
The armies caught up. The slaughter was swift and merciless.
Alejandro led the charge, his blade wet with righteous blood.
Every Inquisitor. Every priest. Every church loyalist was felled. Not one sanctuary stood.
The streets ran red. There were no survivors.
Elsewhere-
A second thunderclap split the air, and Elena appeared in the sacred waters of Coabey's hidden spring. The waters splashed around her, into her gaping wound. She floated in blood-streaked water, her newborn pressed to her breast.
Her head lolled.
Her lips moved-
"Let me go," she whispered.
"Save the child…"
The serpent stirred weakly inside her, coiling once more around her heart like a dying flame.
"We're done," Elena begged.
"Please. I've given everything. Just… let me rest…"
And still, the serpent of Guabancex roared inside her bones:
Not yet.
Not like this.
You are the storm. And storms do not fade.
Two Behikes emerged running from the mist, as if called by fate. They dropped to their knees in the sacred waters.
"Señora Behike, the child!"
The elder took the infant, already glowing faintly with divine blood. The other worked fast to close the torn abdomen, whispering prayers over soaked gauze and cracked bone.
Elena's breath stuttered.
Her eyes rolled back.
Only one word passed her lips:
"Phineus."
The old Behike wept, wrapping the boy in blessed cloth.
"Phineus," she echoed. "Hold on, little Phineus. Your mother fights for you still."
The second Behike worked with shaking hands, sealing the cursed wound, praying desperately.
Far away-
Niegal ran.
Not as a man, but a god.
The Lion had fully taken him now, bounding with speed no mortal could match. Trees bent. Wind howled. Stone cracked beneath his heels.
But even through the roar of power-
he felt it.
She was slipping.
She was leaving him.
Again.
He screamed her name into the rain.
And pushed faster.
Faster.
Toward the spring.
Toward the storm.
Toward his family.