Kael burst down like thunder.
Voidfire exploded from his impact, searing a black crater into the rim of the altar. Hooded cultists ran screaming in forgotten languages, their hands upraised against the aberrant light spilling out of him. Some prostrated themselves in adoration. Others darted into the rocks like crabs retreating before a tempest.
Elira slammed the ground beside him, her moonlit sword flashing in a deadly curve. A sea-shrouded acolyte charged at her with a curved jawbone-shaped dagger — but she sidestepped, whirled, and drove her sword through his chest in one flowing motion.
He slumped, sea-brine and blood running from his mouth.
Kael turned toward the tall figure at the center — the one with the eel-skin cowl and glowing runes.
"You!" he shouted. "You're the one drawing the blade. Stop it."
The figure chuckled. Not with fear — with awe.
