The silhouette in the smoke began moving toward Erin through the haze. Raw rage pulsed from it—yet the sensation only widened Erin's wicked smile.
Truly papa's girl.
Behind her, the trench she had carved through the forest was already healing: flattened trees rose like film played in reverse, shattered boulders reassembled themselves piece by piece, and vines knitted closed as if the devastation had never happened.
"So this is the forgotten divine authority Aunt warned me about?" Erin mused, a grin stretching with eager anticipation.
She tilted her head. "Pretty bold of you—wielding my mother's power against me while trying to steal my father too."
Time was the authority Ashtarya had ripped from Ersyn, goddess of death and time, centuries ago.
"You are exactly like her," the witch hissed, her voice a chorus of rot and resentment. "Always stealing. Always hoarding what was promised to me."
