She pushed herself up slowly, her breath ragged but steadying. Her crimson eyes glowed brighter than before, and the blood from her wounds didn't spill—it slithered, moving back toward her body like a crimson tide.
Zephariel stepped back, watching her rise with a mix of confusion and intrigue. "You shouldn't be standing."
Mariposa stood fully now, her long hair flowing unnaturally despite the stillness around them. Her blood, both spilled and summoned, began to whirl around her like an aura. Her voice was deeper, steadier, laced with something ancient.
"You're wrong," she said, stepping out from the rubble. "You thought you broke me. But you only woke... what sleeps beneath."
The wind shifted again. Not Zephariel's this time—but something primal.
From her back, dark tendrils of blood extended and then hardened, shaping into twisted, elegant wings. Her skin took on a faint red glow, and her pupils slit into sharp lines.
Zephariel's eyes narrowed. "Is this the Blood of Joseph?"
