Vornin fell to his knees.
His flames were extinguished, snuffed out and devoured by golden light that still blazed behind Sage like a second sun. His mask had cracked down the center, revealing a face beneath that was handsome in a cruel way, now twisted in agony and disbelief. Blood poured from a dozen wounds—deep gashes carved by a black scythe that moved faster than fire could burn.
The twelve-foot halo of the nine-tailed fox loomed over Sage like a god passing judgment. Golden tails swayed in slow, hypnotic patterns. Each eye burned with ancient light that made the darkness of Kael's realm recoil.
Sage stood before the kneeling man, scythe resting against her shoulder, blood dripping from the blade in a steady rhythm.
"Did you think," she said, voice light, almost playful, "that you ever stood a chance against a nine-tailed fox?"
Vornin coughed blood. His flames flickered one last time—a pathetic sputter of orange that died before it could form into anything useful.
