The storm had teeth.
Not just wind, not just thunder. The Herald had shed the last of its flesh, unraveling into a tempest with fangs of lightning and jaws of shadow. The sky itself gnawed at the arena, lightning bolts snapping down like the bite of a predator intent on consuming the world.
Jemil staggered, boots sliding on slick stone as sheets of rain lashed his face. The roar of the storm drowned out thought, yet he could still hear the whisper inside his chest—the Mark.
Hunt. Devour. Tear. Rip the heart before it rips yours.
He bit back the urge to scream. His blade quivered in his hands, not with fear but with the heat of his own fire, trying to stand against the endless storm.
A sharp clang brought him back—steel biting into lightning.
