The sky islands trembled.
Vaelon's death wasn't silent.It shook the roots of Vanyr.
The gods gathered.
High Council.
Twelve thrones around a burning sun.
The King of Gods sat silent at first.
Let them shout.
Let them panic.
Then—he spoke one word.
"Send Her."
The room fell into cold silence.
No one argued.
No one dared.
Down below, Tarn moved.
Faster now.Stronger.
Every step he took, the black flame inside him grew.
It craved more.
More vengeance.More blood.
But Tarn controlled it.
Barely.
He wasn't stupid.He knew killing one god was noise.
Killing more?That would bring the hammer.
He needed to strike smarter.
He crossed into the eastern spires.
Past the gold-plated towers.Past the market bridges.Into the old quarters.
Where the lower gods lived.The ones not born into power, but clawed into it.
Easy prey.
Tarn was about to move when the air changed.
Sharp.
Like broken glass against his skin.
His black flame hissed.
Danger.
He turned—
And saw her.
She didn't look like the others.
No armor.No jewels.No wings.
Just black robes.Bare feet.A mask made of bone.
She floated an inch off the ground.
Silent.
Deadly.
Tarn's muscles tensed.
Something deep inside him — even the flame — whispered:
Run.
The woman spoke.
Her voice was soft.Like a lullaby meant to hide a knife.
"You stain this place with death."
"I'll stain it more," Tarn said, standing his ground.
She tilted her head.
"No. You won't."
She struck first.
No warning.
No light show.
Just a blur.
Tarn blocked.
Barely.
The force of it sent him skidding back across the clouds.
His arms rattled from the impact.
She didn't wait.
Came again.
A second strike.A third.A fourth.
Each faster than the last.
Each heavier.
Tarn grit his teeth.
The black flame inside roared, trying to match her.
He let it loose.
The air between them exploded.
Clouds tore apart.
Islands in the distance shook.
A god and a half-god locked in pure violence.
Neither speaking now.
Only fists. Only power.
But Tarn could feel it.
He was losing.
Slowly.
This woman… she wasn't a soldier.
She was a weapon.
A hunter trained to kill her own kind.
Tarn stumbled.
She cut across his chest with her bare hand.
The wound sizzled.Not blood—something darker leaked out.
She hovered above him.
Mask staring down.
"Yield."
Tarn wiped the dark blood from his mouth.
Stared up.
"Ishvalans never yield."
And he roared.
Black flame burst from him in a wave.
The woman shielded herself, but it forced her back.
Gave Tarn space.
He didn't waste it.
Turned.Ran into the deeper parts of the eastern spire.
He needed time.
Time to learn.
Time to grow.
Because if he didn't—
he wouldn't survive the next encounter.