The world turned red.
Not crimson like a sunset, but the deep, suffocating red of blood-soaked silk and rage never spent. The fall ended abruptly as she landed on a scorched battlefield suspended in the sky, where the clouds churned like molten iron and thunder cracked like war drums.
Ash rained from above.
All around her, statues stood—dozens, hundreds—people frozen mid-scream, mid-fight, mid-fear. Warriors. Villagers. Children. Lovers. All victims of something ancient… and wrathful.
Their eyes had been turned to her.
To Stheno.
The second-born gorgon.
From the center of the field, a figure rose. Seven feet tall, skin burnished gold, hair formed of serpent-fire, muscles rippling with divine fury. Her eyes burned like twin suns—unyielding and endless.
"You who claim the path of the Queen," the voice thundered, reverberating through the trial realm, "can you hold the fury of betrayal and not burn everything in your wake?"