The silence that followed the Watcher's departure was not peaceful. It was the silence of a held breath, of tension wound so tight it threatened to snap, of a predator waiting just beyond the edge of vision. Selena remained kneeling on the shattered obsidian, her hand still clasped in Dante's, feeling the pulse of their combined brands—fire and lightning woven together into something that thrummed with power and defiance.
Her wings ached. The skeletal structures that the marrow had created were breaking apart under the assault of her renewed flames, but the process was slow and agonizing. Chunks of yellowed bone fell away, dissolving into ash before they hit the ground, and where they had been, she could feel new growth struggling to emerge not the pristine feathered wings she had possessed before, but something changed by the ordeal, something scarred but hers.
