Sol stood on the ridge, his chest heaving like a broken bellows, staring down at the writhing pit of vipers he had just escaped.
He was covered in slime, blood… red, black and countless other colors… and of course, the pulverized remains of snakes.
"I made it," he wheezed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. "I actually made it."
…
While Sol was wading through the horde of the foot soldiers, a broken machine of muscle and spite, the Sovereign of the Gorge simply watched. It had remained a static monument of dark blue scales and ivory bone, its head hovering at the height of a watchtower. It hadn't needed to move. To a god of the Inner Circle, this wasn't a battle; it was a microscopic event. It was watching its immune system deal with a particularly stubborn virus.
But even a god has a limit for noise.
