The air itself was a prison.
Lightning bled from the walls of the storm-cage, webbing the battlefield in jagged lines that burned the air and filled every breath with the taste of copper. Wind howled in endless circles, tugging at cloaks and hair, forcing every movement to feel like a battle against the storm itself. The arena was no place—it was a predator's maw, and Jemil and the swordmaster were trapped inside it.
The Herald crouched at the center, talons scraping molten sparks from the stone floor as it shifted its weight. Its body was humanoid, but only barely. Too long in the limbs, too sharp at the joints, too alien in the way lightning danced across its flesh like veins made of storm. Its molten eyes burned like twin suns, and its grin was a scythe of white fire.
At last, the predator whispered, voice rolling through the arena as if the storm itself had found words. Prey worth hunting.
Then it moved.
