The god looked weak.
Centuries in the dark beneath the temple, bound by the ice of the northern mages, had weared him down to the bone, turning his massive bulk into something pitiful.
But he was still large enough to fill the circular room, his spine scraping the lower edge of the dome as he was dragged forward.
His scales were the color of an old forge fire, a black, angry hue that had gone dull at the edges for want of wood.
His great golden eyes rolled In his skull, taking in the torches, the chanting men, and then the white-haired girl on the stone.
The moment the god looked at Eris, he stopped pulling against the chain. For the space of one breath, the great beast went entirely rigid, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the tiny thing pinned to the altar.
There was no fury in his face, no roar of hatred. It was simply the ancient looking at the fresh, an old terror recognizing the trap that had been built for him.
Then the fury came back.
