Eris stood where the altar had been, perfectly still, and yet she looked like motion itself, like reality couldn't quite hold her in place, like she existed in a space between heartbeats where the normal rules didn't apply.
Her eyes glowed molten gold. Not reflecting light. Creating it. Pupils gone, replaced by pure liquid fire that shifted and burned and saw in ways no mortal eyes were meant to see.
Her skin was wreathed in flames that didn't burn her. They moved across her flesh like living things, like silk in wind, flickering between white and gold and something that had no name because mortal languages had never needed a word for the color of divinity. The fire didn't consume, it was, woven into her skin until there was no separation between flesh and flame.
And from her back,
Wings.
Not physical. Not flesh and bone and feather.
