Rhea gave in first.
She cut off a bite, stared at it for a second, then popped it into her mouth with a shrug. Chewed. Chewed some more. Her brows lifted just slightly.
"…It's good," she admitted, surprised. "Like, actually good."
Jasper took a piece next, a little more hesitant. He chewed slowly, eyebrows furrowing.
"Tastes a bit… metallic."
I nodded. "Probably healthy. Rich in iron."
Rhea snorted. "Yeah, I can feel my hemoglobin levels rising already."
I was halfway through my own slice, and yeah, they weren't wrong. There was a faint tang — like licking a copper coin — but it wasn't bad. Just… dense. Meaty. Like the protein equivalent of getting punched in the ribs by a personal trainer.
"You think eating monster eggs is safe long-term?" Jasper asked, glancing toward the second one still sitting on the table.
I shrugged. "Safer than eating roadkill. Plus, I cooked it. And magic-chanted it. It's probably cleaner than half the stuff in fast food."
Rhea finished her portion and tossed the fork onto the plate. "If this is what the wild tastes like, I could get used to it."
"Remind me to write a cookbook," I muttered. "Camp Cuisine: Eat What You Kill."
Jasper gave me a look. "I feel like that would be banned in at least thirty states."
"Only the soft ones."
The second egg sat untouched for now, gleaming faintly in the morning light.
But for now, we had breakfast.
And it was damn good.
After breakfast, we headed out to the parking lot, the early Boise sun casting long shadows over the pavement. The Harley sat there like a faithful warhorse — clean, tuned, and somehow purring even while it was off. The cyclops mechanic back in Seattle had worked some serious magic. It looked, and felt, like it was ready to cross the continent and then some.
"Okay," I said, eyeing it. "It's in great shape. Only problem now is... us."
Rhea crossed her arms. "You're telling me that beast of a motorcycle can't fit three demigods?"
"She's a war machine," I said. "Not a minivan."
Jasper walked around the bike, tapping one of the reinforced saddlebags. "The engine can handle it now. Weight distribution's our only problem. Rhea rides on the back. I take middle. Lucas drives."
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think you get the middle?"
"Because I'm the smallest," he said, deadpan. "And you hit things."
"…Fair."
I pulled out some extra straps and bungee cords from the rear pouch. "We'll tie the gear tight, shift the packs forward. You can lean back on the supply bag. I'll rig some paracord to give you an anchor strap if things get bumpy."
Rhea gave me a look. "If I go flying because of your rig job, I'm throwing you off the Grand Canyon."
"Noted."
She took the helmet I tossed her and gave the bike another once-over. "Alright. Not bad. Actually looks kinda mean now."
Jasper ran his hand along the tank. "It should. We've rebuilt half of it by now."
"Yeah," I said, tossing a leg over the seat. "She's not just a bike anymore."
Rhea shrugged. "Well. Let's see how long this machine lasts before fate throws something stupid at us."
I smiled. "Give it ten minutes."
The Harley was flying smooth down I-84. Engine purring like a big metal cat, tires gripping the pavement like it owed us rent. The weather was good, sky was clear, and the road was mostly empty — perfect conditions for zoning out with one IPod jammed in and Foo Fighters blasting at skull-shaking volume.
I was in the zone — throttle steady, wind in my face, music in my blood.
Behind me? Total chaos.
Rhea and Jasper were yelling at each other, probably having the loudest heart-to-heart in the history of ever. But the combination of wind, helmets, and my music meant I was only catching parts of it.
"SO I LEFT SPOKANE AFTER THE WHOLE GAS STATION BLEW UP—!"
"WHAT?!" I shouted, not turning around, still trying to hold the line.
"GAS STATION! BLEW UP!" Rhea yelled again, like that explained anything.
"WHY?!" I screamed.
"I THINK THERE WAS A MANTICORE OR MAYBE A HELLHOUND! IT HAD TENTACLES—!"
"TENTACLES?!"
"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN TWO MONSTERS! ONE WAS ON FIRE!"
"I CAN'T HEAR SHIT!"
"I WAS HIDING UNDER A ROTTING TRUCK BED FOR SIX HOURS—!"
"WHY DID YOU STAY THERE?!"
"IT WAS WARM!!"
I almost missed a turn from laughing. Swerved a bit. Jasper made some kind of panicked noise and clutched my jacket like I was driving a roller coaster off the rails.
"THIS IS NOT HOW HUMANS TRAVEL!" he shouted toward my ear.
"WELCOME TO THE FUTURE!" I shouted back.
"SO THEN I FOUND A WRENCH IN THE TRASH AND I STABBED IT IN THE EYE—!"
"A WHAT?!"
"A WRENCH, LUCAS!! A WRENCH!! I DON'T KNOW WHY IT WORKED!"
"STOP STABBING THINGS WITH TOOLS!"
"IT WORKED!"
Jasper tried yelling something about monsters adapting, but it just came out as wind-garbled noise.
I gave up trying to hear anything. Cranked the volume a little higher, just enough for the music to drown out the backseat insanity.
But yeah. This was fine.
The tires screeched a little as I took the curve harder than I probably should've, the frame groaning under the weight of three demigods and a mountain of survival gear strapped to the back.
Jasper let out a noise somewhere between a dying bird and a scream.
"WE'RE FINE!" I shouted over my shoulder.
"No, we're not!" he yelled back, voice wobbling with every bump.
Rhea just laughed behind him like she was having the time of her life. "Come on, nerds! Where's your sense of adventure?!"
I grinned under my helmet, eyes locked on the road. The highway stretched out ahead of us, long and endless, the kind of empty that only exists in the middle of nowhere America. The sky was bright, and the engine was purring like it had something to prove.
My plan was simple: Salt Lake City by late afternoon, Fort Collins by sundown — if the wind stayed low, the roads stayed clear, and the gods didn't throw something ridiculous in our way. It wasn't impossible. Just really stupid. My favorite kind of plan.
"You know," I shouted, "we might make it just north of Fort Collins before we lose the sun!"
Jasper shouted something I didn't catch — probably "Are you insane?" or "This isn't sustainable!" but it was lost to the wind and Pearl Jam thundering in my ears.
Didn't matter.
The road was ours, the sun was climbing, and the Harley was eating up mile after mile like a beast reborn.
If nothing stopped us?
We'd make it.
If something did?
Well, I'd already fought griffons and cooked their unborn children for breakfast.
Whatever came next?
I'd find a way to kill it, too.
We were about halfway between Boise and Salt Lake when Rhea started tapping the back of Jasper's helmet like she was hitting a vending machine.
I slowed the bike and shouted, "What?!"
She leaned to the side, yelling past Jasper. "I gotta pee, dude!"
Of course.
I pulled off onto a gravel turnout on the edge of a wooded area — nothing major, just a thin line of trees between the highway and a dried-up creek bed. A few old tire tracks suggested truckers had used the spot before us, probably for similar reasons.
Rhea hopped off before the engine stopped rattling and sprinted toward the trees, flipping us off over her shoulder as she vanished into the brush.
"Charming," I muttered, pulling the kickstand down and stretching my back.
Jasper slid off next, wincing and rubbing his legs. "If you make me ride middle again tomorrow, I'm tying myself to the handlebars."
I barely heard him.
Because that's when the wind shifted.
And I smelled it.
Not rot. Not blood. Not sulfur or wet dog or any of the usual monster-scent greatest hits.
This was… earthy.
Thick fur. Wet pine. A heavy, musk-soaked scent like old forest and damp rocks.
And something else underneath it — something wrong.
Jasper caught my expression. "What is it?"
I didn't answer.
Just stood still, nose twitching slightly, letting my new senses do the work.
Rhea called from the trees, her voice casual. "I'm good! Just gimme a sec to find a not-prickly spot!"
Still no danger tone in her voice.
But I was already scanning the treeline.
Low branches moved. Birds had gone silent.
And that smell was getting stronger.
Something was nearby.
Big.
Close.
"…Stay here," I muttered, claws already starting to slip free from my knuckles with a metallic snikt.
Jasper's eyes widened. "What is it?"
I left Jasper by the bike with a sharp look that meant "stay put or get eaten."
I crept deeper into the trees, every step quiet, every breath controlled.
The smell was getting worse. Musky. Sweaty. Like old gym socks, and a zoo enclosure all stewing in the summer heat. Mixed with the sharp, coppery tang of fresh blood.
I'd smelled monsters before.
This wasn't that.
This was… something else.
I pushed past a thicket of brush and froze.
There, in a clearing not twenty feet ahead, was a thing I never thought I'd actually see.
Bigfoot.
I'm not joking.
He was real.
And he was massive — like "bend-a-stop-sign-in-half" massive. Covered in thick, matted fur the color of mulch. Arms longer than they should be. Shoulders broad enough to carry a truck bed. And crouched over something on the ground.
A deer. A stag, maybe.
Dead. Broken. Bleeding into the mossy earth.
And Bigfoot? He was eating it. Just casually pulling it apart with one giant hand and ripping hunks of meat from its side like it was jerky.
My brain kind of stalled.
This wasn't a monster from the usual playbook. This wasn't Greek or even something I could look up in a book Jasper carried.
This was Bigfoot. Bigfoot.
The cryptid.
The blurry photo.
The tabloid cover.
And here I was — standing alone in the woods — watching him have lunch.
What the hell.
What the actual hell.
I crouched instinctively, trying to stay hidden, heart pounding like a war drum. My hunter instincts said wait, watch, learn.
But the rest of me was just standing there screaming internally like:
"OH COOL, WE FOUND BIGFOOT. HE'S REAL. HE'S GIANT. HE EATS DEER RAW. AND NOW I'M HERE, GREAT."
He hadn't seen me yet.
Which was good.
Because I had no idea what you're supposed to do when you catch Bigfoot mid-snack.
Shoot it? Bow? Offer it jerky?
No idea.
But I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Because right now, I was in a standoff with the universe's weirdest practical joke come to life.
I stayed crouched behind the brush for a good thirty seconds, heart hammering against my ribs, trying to make sense of the absolute insanity in front of me.
Bigfoot.
Real.
Furry.
And eating a deer like it owed him money.
He hadn't noticed me yet.
Which would've been a great time to back away slowly like a normal person.
But no.
I stood up.
Because apparently I don't have survival instincts — I have main character syndrome.
"Uh…" I cleared my throat, taking a slow step into the clearing. "Hey, big guy."
The thing stopped chewing.
Its massive head snapped up, blood still smeared across its face, glowing yellow eyes locking onto mine like I'd just interrupted something very private.
I held up my hands. "Not here to fight. Just… kind of amazed you exist. You, uh… you're doing great. Love the, uh—" I motioned vaguely to his bloody lunch. "—rugged wilderness aesthetic."
We stared at each other.
One long, tense beat.
Then?
Bigfoot's eyes went wide.
His whole body jerked like I'd hit him with a stun baton.
And then he bolted.
Straight into the woods, tearing through brush and trees like a moose on fire. The ground shook under his footsteps. Branches snapped like twigs. Within seconds, he was gone — just a blur of brown fur and crashing foliage.
Silence fell over the clearing, minus the buzzing of flies around the half-eaten stag.
I stood there, still frozen, hands halfway up in a surrender pose.
"…Cool," I muttered.
"Found Bigfoot. Scared the shit out of Bigfoot."
I turned around and started heading back toward the bike, shaking my head.
"Gonna be real fun explaining this one."
I broke through the brush a minute later, boots crunching gravel as I made my way back toward the bike.
Rhea was zipping up her hoodie and stretching like she'd just had the most relaxing forest moment of her life.
Jasper was pacing nervously by the Harley, eyes flicking between the trees like he expected something to leap out at any moment.
They both looked up when they saw me.
"Everything good?" Jasper asked.
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Worse," I said, still catching my breath. "Bigfoot."
They both stared at me.
"…You mean like a really big foot?" Rhea asked slowly.
"No," I said. "The Bigfoot. Eight feet tall. Covered in fur. Eating a deer raw. Yellow eyes. Took off running the second I said hi."
Rhea snorted. "Dude. You saw a bear."
"That walked on two legs?"
"Some bears do that."
"This one had fingers."
Jasper folded his arms. "Are we sure it wasn't a Minotaur? Or maybe a Leshen? You've been running on griffon egg fumes all morning."
"Guys." I pointed back toward the woods. "I know what I saw. It was Bigfoot. Like, tabloid Bigfoot. Cryptid edition."
Rhea looked at Jasper, then back at me. "You get hit in the head back there?"
"No!"
Pause.
"…Maybe."
Jasper sighed, clearly trying to be the voice of reason. "Look, we believe you think you saw Bigfoot."
"Oh, don't 'we believe you think you saw it' me."
"I'm just saying," he said, raising his hands, "in our world, Bigfoot's probably just a low-level monster with a good PR team."
"Great," I muttered. "Even Bigfoot doesn't get taken seriously."
Rhea rolled her eyes and climbed back onto the bike. "Come on, Bigfoot Whisperer. We've got miles to burn and I wanna hit Fort Collins before dark."
I muttered something under my breath, threw a leg over the Harley, and started the engine.
Next time I saw him, I was getting a selfie.
We hit the road again.
The sun was riding low in the sky now, casting long gold streaks over the asphalt as the Harley tore down the highway. The engine still purred like a dream, even with the weight of three demigods and all our gear.
Rhea had taken to resting her helmet against the back of Jasper's, humming some off-key tune that vibrated through all of us.
Jasper just muttered to himself occasionally, probably calculating whether the wind resistance would kill him before the monsters did.
Me? I kept my eyes on the road.
The Bigfoot encounter was still rattling around in my brain, even if they didn't buy it. It wasn't just that he was real — it was how real. Grounded. Natural. He wasn't part of the flashy monster crew that came at you teeth-first.
He was just… there.
Existing.
Which, somehow, made it creepier.
The miles passed fast after that. Long stretches of desert and scrub, the occasional rest stop, a few signs pointing toward Salt Lake.
The sun was low by the time we rolled into the city — sky a wash of deep oranges and purples, the mountains casting jagged shadows across the buildings. The air was dry, cooler now, but sharp in the lungs after a day on the bike.
Salt Lake City rose up around us like a gridlocked oasis — wide streets, clean architecture, and a strange stillness, like the whole place was holding its breath.
We pulled into a gas station on the edge of town, one of those truck-stop joints with too many security cameras and a broken soda machine buzzing in the corner.
I killed the engine, and all three of us slowly dismounted like our bones had fused to the bike.
Rhea cracked her neck. "Gods, my spine is legally dust."
"I can't feel my knees," Jasper muttered.
I popped the helmet off and ruffled my hair. "We made it, though."
Rhea pointed at the glowing sign of a sketchy motel down the block. "You think that place has roaches or bedbugs?"
"Why not both?"
We grinned.
The motel looked like it might collapse if you sneezed too hard, so we agreed to ditch check-in for now and head a block down to a diner that had a flickering neon sign and the irresistible smell of grilled meat and grease.
"The Silver Spoon."
Charming.
Classic chrome-and-vinyl booth setup, checkerboard floors, laminated menus older than any of us, and a waitress who looked like she hadn't smiled since the Reagan administration. Perfect.
We grabbed a booth by the window. I sat on one side, stretching my legs out. Rhea and Jasper flopped into the other.
Rhea grabbed the menu and squinted at it. "What the hell is a 'Meat Mountain'?"
Jasper looked over her shoulder. "I think it's just a pile of every meat they serve… on pancakes?"
"...I want it."
"I'm going with soup," Jasper muttered. "Something soft. I think my organs are bruised."
The waitress rolled up without a word, chewing gum with the dead-eyed precision of someone who'd transcended time. We ordered. She left. And we were alone.
For a few minutes, it was actually… peaceful.
The buzz of the neon. The clink of silverware. The smell of bacon and old coffee.
Then I noticed something.
Out of the corner of my eye — a guy sitting alone in a booth near the back. Maybe thirty feet away. Didn't look special. Hoodie, ball cap, hunched over a slice of pie.
But he hadn't moved once.
Hadn't eaten.
Hadn't blinked.
I frowned. Tried not to stare.
Rhea must've caught the shift in my face because she stopped mid-rant about how she was going to demolish the Meat Mountain and muttered, "What?"
"Back booth," I said quietly. "Guy hasn't moved."
Jasper turned to glance, subtle. "Maybe he's just tired."
"No plate. Just pie. He hasn't touched it."
And something about the way he was sitting — still, too still — was tripping alarms deep in my gut.
"Don't do anything stupid," Jasper whispered.
"Define stupid," I replied.
We tried to ignore him.
The guy in the back booth stayed exactly where he was — hunched, still, not even pretending to poke at his untouched slice of pie. Rhea kept glancing at him between bites, and even Jasper had stopped stirring his soup.
But nothing happened.
No sudden movement. No demonic transformation. Just stillness, like someone had paused him mid-frame.
The food came.
Rhea absolutely demolished the Meat Mountain like she was getting revenge. Jasper stuck to his soup, throwing me side-eyes every couple minutes. I picked at a plate of eggs and hash browns, pretending not to think about the guy.
But the thing was — I couldn't stop thinking about him.
He was just there.
Still.
Like a statue in a hoodie.
Finally, I pushed my plate away and stood up.
"Gonna hit the bathroom," I said, mostly for the formality.
Rhea barely looked up. "Careful not to slip and fall on the toilet"
Jasper offered a weak smile. "Don't die."
"Not planning to."
I walked past the counter, down a narrow hallway lined with faded photos of Salt Lake in the '50s, and pushed open the men's room door.
Dim light. Flickering bulb.
Cracked mirror. One urinal. One stall.
Everything smelled like bleach and cheap air freshener trying to lose a fight with mold.
I stepped up to the sink, ran the water, splashed my face.
The cold helped.
But even in here, something felt… off.
I leaned over the sink, water dripping from my face, breathing slow and tight.
Then the suns came back.
That black space behind my eyes flared to life — three void-dark orbs hanging in the airless dark.
And one of them shined.
The pressure in my chest was building — hot, tight, coiled behind my ribs like I'd swallowed a live ember.
It crawled up my mouth, tingling behind my teeth, lighting up my sinuses with heat.
I leaned over the sink, gritting my jaw.
Then—
Burp.
A small one.
But it lit.
A golf ball-sized fireball slipped from my mouth, hissed through the air, and smacked against the tile near the soap dispenser in a quick fwump. A black scorch mark bloomed where it hit, smoke curling from it like a burnt marshmallow.
I stared at the wall, blinking.
"…Okay."
I looked up into the mirror.
And froze.
No one else.
But I felt it — that prickling sense that someone was behind me. That dense, pressure-in-the-air kind of presence that screams not alone, the smell coming from just behind me.
I turned.
And there he was.
The guy from the booth.
Standing directly behind me in the middle of the cramped bathroom — hoodie up, skin pale and dry like old paper, eyes sunken and dark. His mouth was shut, his posture too still. Not natural still — dead still.
But what made my stomach turn?
I snapped my head back to the mirror.
He wasn't there.
Just me.
I turned back to face him, pulse thudding in my ears.
He was still there.
Still watching.
No breath.
No reflection.
That was a vampire.
I stared at him — at the thing with no reflection, dead eyes, and death-still posture — and my gut said run.
But I didn't.
I just muttered:
"Fuck it."
The burning sensation in my jaw shifted, focused. I could feel the new holes inside my mouth — right next to my salivary glands — start to pulse. Pressure built behind my tongue, thick and acidic, like something coiled deep in my throat was spitting up gasoline.
I opened my mouth—
And unleashed hell.
A narrow stream of liquid fire blasted from my lips — white-hot venom igniting the second it hit air, like a miniature flamethrower bursting forward with a violent hiss. It struck the vampire dead in the chest, lighting up his hoodie in an instant.
The vampire didn't scream.
He charged.
Right through the fire.
Eyes glowing red, body smoking, fangs out.
He hit me like a train.
We slammed into the tile wall and I went full instinct.
Claws out. Arms moving faster than I could think. I hacked into him like I was carving through raw meat — slicing through his ribs, his arms, chunks of dead flesh peeling back in strips.
And he kept coming.
Even on fire. Even torn apart.
So I did the only logical thing.
I bit him.
Hard.
My teeth sank deep into his neck. I could feel the venom pouring into him, fire boiling under his skin from the inside out.
He shrieked.
First sound he'd made.
I slammed him back into the sink, he crashed through it and into the pipes, when the water touched him he screamed even harder, I tore at his throat with my teeth like a rabid animal, and didn't stop until—
Poof.
Golden dust.
Ash everywhere.
Just me, breathing hard, crouched in the middle of a scorched, wrecked diner bathroom with blood on my mouth and burn marks on the ceiling.
I stood up, wiped my face, looked at the mirror.
And muttered, grinning:
"Some motherfucker always trying to ice skate uphill."
I took a second to rinse my face on the busted pipe — mostly out of habit. It didn't help. I still looked like a bloodied-up pyro who'd just wrestled a furnace and won.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Just me again. Eyes a little wilder than before. Still grinning.
Then I stepped out into the diner.
The bell above the door jingled like nothing happened. Fryers hissed from the kitchen. A waitress refilled coffee for a trucker who hadn't looked up once.
Rhea and Jasper were still in the booth, finishing their food.
Jasper looked up first.
"Dude, were you gone for like twenty minutes or—" He froze mid-sentence. Eyes scanned my scorched hoodie, the burn marks on my sleeves, and the faint curl of smoke rising from my collar.
Rhea followed his gaze.
Then she leaned forward. "Did… did you get into a fight in there?"
I slid back into the booth like it was any other Tuesday.
"Yeah," I said, grabbing what was left of my hash browns and taking a bite. "Vampire."
Jasper blinked. "A what?"
"Vampire," I said with my mouth half full. "For real this time, a real vampire. No reflection. Spit fire at him but it didn't kill him fast enough so I had to bite him."
Rhea stared. "You bit a vampire?"
"He bit me first. I just bit harder."
Jasper covered his face with both hands. "I leave you alone for five minutes—"
I shrugged and chewed.
Behind me, the waitress passed by with a coffee pot and didn't even glance at the scorched cuffs of my hoodie.
Business as usual.
Jasper was still giving me the you-need-to-be-studied-in-a-lab look.
Rhea leaned forward across the table, eyes narrowed like she was trying to figure out if I was joking, insane, or just... me.
"So," she said slowly, "you're spitting fire now."
"Yep."
"Like, full flamethrower."
"Mini version," I said, picking up my water. "Might upgrade later."
Jasper looked from me to his barely-touched soup like it suddenly wasn't safe to eat anymore. "How? Why? You weren't doing this yesterday."
"You know," I said, wiping some ash off my sleeve. "It just… started."
They both stared at me.
I looked around to make sure no one else was watching — the diner staff couldn't care less, and the one old guy at the counter was too invested in his scrambled eggs to notice us.
So I leaned in, tilted my head back slightly, and opened my mouth.
Both of them recoiled instantly.
"Dude, what the hell—" Rhea hissed.
Inside, just under my tongue and behind my teeth, they could see it — a faint greenish fluid pooling, slick and bubbling just a bit, like it was already itching to ignite.
Jasper covered his mouth. "That's venom."
"Yeah," I said, closing my jaw carefully. "Watch this."
I turned toward the window, leaned to the side, and let loose a small luggie onto the concrete just outside.
The second it hit the air—
FWOOM.
A burst of orange flame flared up with a sharp hiss, then faded, leaving a small black scorch mark on the sidewalk.
"…Told you," I said, sipping my water like nothing happened.
Rhea blinked, then turned back to her toast like she needed to focus on something safe.
"So…" Jasper said cautiously. "This just… keeps happening to you?"
"Yeah. It's like…" I leaned back, thinking. "You know when you stare at the sun too long, and when you blink, there's that black orb burned into your vision?"
They both nodded.
"Well, I see those before I get something new. Just floating behind my eyes."
"And they… what?" Rhea asked.
"When one lights up," I said slowly, "something changes. I get something. A power. A skill."
Jasper leaned forward, whispering, "That's not a god's blessing."
"Don't think so."
They sat in silence for a second.
Finally, Rhea stabbed the last bit of her Meat Mountain and said, "Well… I'm just glad you're on our side."
Jasper nodded. "Yeah. Let's keep it that way."
I grinned.
"Anyway," I said, swallowing, "I'm good now. You guys ready to hit the road?"
Rhea raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, just as soon as I finish processing the fact that you drool venom, spit fire and mauled a vampire in a bathroom."
"I didn't maul," I said. "It was more like… tactical gnawing."
Jasper groaned.
I grinned.
We started going our way back to the bike. Road still waiting. And now, apparently, I was a walking venomous flamethrower with a mouth full of serrated teeth.
Neat.
CP Bank: 0cp
Perks earned this chapter: 100cp Bite of Uraeus (Egyptian Mythology) [Destruction] While the bite of a normal cobra burns well enough in the blood, the monsters of Duat are described as having venom even more fierce. Your teeth are now capable of producing potent venom and spitting it from your mouth, but this venom also ignites on contact with air, erupting into a great spray of flame. You are immune to the toxin of your own bite, and resistant to accidentally scorching yourself when spitting fire.
Milestones reached this chapter: none