The breath left her lips in a plume of white vapor that curled upward against the cold winter air, hot from the exertion, the bloodlust, the warmth still pooling beneath the Beloved mark on her belly. The faintest trace of crimson misted off the katana in the same updraft, painting the vapor pink.
The Venomborne Terror stood in the ruins of what she had done with her dark hair falling across a face devoid of emotion, looking up at him through the rising heat of her own breath.
Her hand pressed against her belly, fingers spreading across the Beloved mark, and the mark blazed violet beneath her palm, bright enough to burn through her clothing.
The pulse that erupted from it shot upward toward the man in the sky like a flare.
Across the circle of the dead, serpent marks seared themselves into every corpse's forehead in the same instant, violet brands that hissed against cold skin and burned bright enough to cast shadows on the soldiers standing over them.
