The silence that followed was absolute.
No one moved. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, unwilling to disturb the tableau of violence and its architect standing at its center.
Eris looked down at Isolde's ruined form... the charred flesh, the blistered skin, the way her body lay twisted and broken like a discarded doll.
She felt the anger still simmering in her chest, hot coals that hadn't quite burned out, but the fury that had driven her was beginning to recede like a tide pulling back from shore.
She'd done it. Shown them exactly who she was.
The Fire Witch. The Tyrant. The Monster from their nightmares made flesh and standing in their pristine courtyard with blood on her hands and satisfaction in her heart.
