‘Liar! You lie and are the mother of lies, false god!’ Vaara screamed, pushing through the pain of the images to attack the witchgod once more.


    There was a sudden ache, a dull emptiness as the space where Zsa Zsa had been was suddenly vacant, a vacuum left by her retreat as she turned to weather Vaara’s enraged charge. Was that what had happened? When the purging fires of holy flames ripped through the forests so long ago, a veritable tsunami of magma? Objo wavered, unsteady on her feet after the mental barrage.


    A roaring filled her in its absence, her mind scrambling, thoughts messy, confused, hurt, as she tried to fit this newfound information with the image she held of her goddess. Her mother, the wise and endless sage that governed Objo and her sisters with gentle benevolence. Who had found her as a young bird, seen something worthy in her and elevated her from her previous life to a new one, had given her purpose and meaning. Which were now sullied by the possible duplicity of Nemia’s motives.


    Nemia claimed they were ridding the world of the truly wicked, her directive to seek out the worst the witches could offer and bring them before her for their righteous ruling. But if she herself was the greatest perpetrator, how could she be qualified of judgment? The hypocrisy twisted Objo’s stomach, disgust at being deceived by one she trusted, one she revered. And Objo had been a part of it, had enabled her witch hunt, and was in fact Nemia’s most capable hunter. It was sickening.


    But no, it was the witchgod who had imparted the visions, and the witches were wicked, immoral, devious. Vaara had called Zsa Zsa false god, and was she wrong? The goddess demanded the blood of kin, was it outlandish for her to be capable of the smaller vice of lying, and to her immortal enemy’s children. She could have twisted the truth, designed her visions in such a way as to mislead Nemia’s disciples. Objo shook her head roughly, trying to dislodge the unfaithful thoughts. Later. She would deal with her misgivings later, right now was not the time.


    The witch-vessel was on the defensive now, laughing as she dodged Vaara’s swinging claws, the cassowary harpy’s powerful talons raking through the air as the smaller woman danced around her. Then with one quick moment, the witch ducked under a heavily thrown strike, ducking under Vaara’s guard to land a vicious slice, through her plumage deep in Vaara’s stomach.


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    Vaara fell to the ground, hands at the wound, trying to hold in the blood from where it was escaping far too fast, her hands dark forbidden red in the firelight. There was a shrieking, high and piercing, a broken sound that shouldn’t have been reached by any human voice. It was impossible to tell who was making that horrible shriek, that sound of a woman unraveling. It may have been Vaara, or Objo herself, but she could see too Hrae on the other side of the bonfire, the vulture harpy’s mouth was open, screaming too words lost in the fray.


    Standing upright now, her expression vicious and satisfied, Zsa Zsa smirked down at her latest victim. Flames sparked in her eyes, despite the fire being behind her. She turned to Objo now, fixing her in place with those horrible eyes, the fire in them growing, an inferno rather than the embers they had been.


    ‘It’s not kin blood, but I will accept this offering,’ she murmured, glancing back thoughtfully at the fallen Vaara, as she advanced on Objo. She was on her knees, now, bowing before the might of the god, her legs sinking into the bloody muck of the well trod ground, trampled by decades of witches and their gruesome religious rites. How much of this was earth and how much was decades of dried blood, Objo wondered, distantly, coming back to herself, the shock of Vaara’s defeat wearing off in the face of this imminent danger. She hadn’t thought the other woman would fail. She was so strong, stronger than any of the other harpies, stronger even the Hrae. And still she had fallen. What chance did Objo have? She was a hunter, not a fighter.


    The witchgod came closer, until she stood before Objo, standing over her kneeling posture as if Objo were a supplicant at her altar. And she may as well have been. The fight had gone out of her, probably back when Imita had first fallen. She had thought she was shocked then, but now, paralyzed before the majesty of the witchmother, she understood to a new depth. This was true fear.


    The goddess bent, reaching out a dangerous finger to tilt the conquered harpy’s head, looking deep into her eyes. If she looked too long would she burn? She could feel phantom tongues of flame licking at her wings, the heat of it curling her feathers. The god seemed to like what she found there, a pleased smile spreading on her lips, less sharp than the one she had when she was battling Objo’s sister. ‘You will pass on my regards to dear Nemia, won''t you fledgling? And treasure my gift, I have given you something precious.’


    And then she was gone. Not the body, of course, but the god. Left this plane back to whatever eldritch plane it was she had come from. The witch before her fell to the ground, but Objo was too shaken to take advantage of her vulnerability. Hrae however was not. She snapped the woman’s neck with an efficient and practiced ease that would have alarmed Objo at any other time. But now she was just grateful. ‘Collect yourself, tend to Vaara, we’re leaving,’ she rasped, words clipped. Did she begrudge Objo her weakness? She didn’t have energy to dissect the firm look on Hrae’s face, the shadows flickering strangely over her lightening scars. Facing down a goddess had drained her. She stood, wobbling, but seeing Vaara moaning had her hurrying over to help the other woman.