The valley spread out in front of Grace like a giant red gash in the earth, once again.
Stone walls towered on both sides, herding her toward what was definitely going to be the worst beatdown of her very short angelic life.
Each step felt heavier.
[I should've written a will. Do angels even write wills? What would I even leave behind? My collection of bruises from Diana's "training"?]
The heat slammed into her in waves. Not normal volcano heat either—this was personal. Like the air itself had a grudge against her specifically.
Grace kept walking anyway.
What else could she do? Turn around and tell everyone "Sorry, changed my mind, the murder volcano is too scary"? Yeah, right. She'd faced the Root's creepy plant zombies. She'd gotten tentacle-fucked by the Tide until she managed to flip the script. She could handle one angry fire spirit.
Probably.
Maybe.
[Fuck my life.]
