The first explosion lit the sky like a newborn sun.
Across Tawantin, every head turned. Every conversation died. Every hand paused mid-gesture as the crack of Ember's detonations rolled across the island, followed by the sharp crackle of Electro lightning dancing against the clouds.
The festival grounds froze in a tableau of everyday life turned strange. A woman with her mouth full of nails stared at the sky. Two old men arguing about lantern knots forgot what they were arguing about. The dog that had been sleeping in a patch of light woke up and whimpered.
Bianca's head snapped toward the beach, her eyes wide behind her magnifying goggles. "Like, WHAT the hell?"
Galit's neck coiled into a defensive knot, his green eyes tracking the flashes. His hand moved to his weapons—not drawing, just checking, confirming they were there.
The man who had been arguing with Vesta about the noise—the one with the Rokaku —stopped mid-sentence. His mouth hung open as another explosion painted the mist in shades of orange and red.
Vesta looked past him, past the stall, past everything, her violet eyes reflecting the distant fire. "Whoa," she breathed. "That looks... intense."
Behind her legs, two small faces peered out. Sanza's red hair caught the light from above, his expression caught between curiosity and the first stirrings of fear. Eliane's flour-smeared face was pale beneath the smudges.
"What are you looking at?" Sanza demanded, trying to push past Eliane for a better view.
Eliane scoffed, gesturing toward the sky with the kind of exasperation only a child forced to state the obvious could muster. "Isn't it obvious? Something's happening at the beach!"
Jelly bounced up from behind them, his gelatinous body stretching to see over the crowd. His starry eyes caught the explosions and reflected them back in miniature.
"WHOA..." The sound stretched, his mouth forming a perfect O of wonder. "Pretty lights! Are we doing fireworks? I love fireworks! Bloop!"
The wonder lasted approximately three seconds.
Because the next explosion didn't come from the beach.
It came from above.
Doc Q circled overhead on Stronger, the grey horse's hooves finding purchase on nothing but air. His pale face split in a grin that held no warmth, no humor—just the anticipation of a sickly man about to watch beautiful chaos unfold.
He reached into his bag and threw.
Apples tumbled end over end toward the festival grounds—ordinary apples, except for the faint tick-tick-tick that came from within them, the sound of mechanisms wound too tight.
They fell.
And in the same moment, Vasco Shot landed in the center of the market square.
The ground cratered beneath his massive frame, sending stalls and people flying. Bottles clinked at his belt—endless bottles, full of who-knew-what. He grabbed one, pulled the cork with his teeth, and took a deep breath.
Then he exhaled.
Fire.
Not a stream, not a jet—a barrage. Bullets of flame shot from his mouth in every direction, catching streamers, stalls, anything that would burn. The heat washed over the crowd in a wave, and people screamed.
The explosive apples hit the ground.
The first one detonated near a food stall, sending wood and clay and half-cooked corn cakes flying. The second caught a group of villagers trying to run, knocking them off their feet. The third—the third landed in the center of the crowd.
The concussive blast flattened everything within twenty meters.
Bodies flew. Stalls collapsed. Lanterns fell and caught, spreading fire through the wreckage.
Bianca hit the ground behind an overturned table, her ears ringing, her goggles cracked down one side. "LIKE WHAT THE ACTUAL—"
Galit was already moving, his neck extending to give him a view of the chaos, his weapons in his hands. He saw the burning stalls, the fallen villagers, the massive figure of Vasco Shot laughing in the center of it all.
"Everyone take cover!" His voice cut through the screams, sharp and commanding. "Get the wounded to the edges! Non-combatants to the temple steps!"
Another apple detonated.
More screams.
Doc Q circled overhead, reaching for another handful.
---
Above the festival grounds, Bō-Zak soared.
His condor form caught the thermal drafts, wings spread wide, golden eyes scanning the chaos below. He had seen the explosions from the beach—had wheeled in the air to investigate—and now he watched in horror as his home, his island, his people burned.
The ceremonial bells were gone. The ridiculous robes were gone. There was only the Condor, and the fire, and the screaming.
He banked left, ready to dive, ready to—
A shape appeared in his peripheral vision.
Moving fast.
Too fast.
Laffitte materialized out of the mist like a ghost, his white suit immaculate, his cane raised to his lips. He didn't speak, didn't announce himself—just aimed and blew.
A dart shot from the cane, straight at Bō-Zak's heart.
Bō-Zak's eyes narrowed.
He twisted in mid-air—a maneuver that should have been impossible for anything with wings—and the dart passed within inches of his beak. He heard it whisper past, felt the displacement of air.
Laffitte sailed past him, his ballet slippers making no sound, his expression one of mild disappointment.
They faced each other in the air, two figures suspended above the burning festival grounds.
Bō-Zak's golden eyes took in the white suit, the cane, the cold efficiency of the attack. He looked down at the chaos below—at the fire, the screams, the falling bodies—and understood.
This wasn't random.
This was an assault.
His wings folded. His body tensed. And when he opened his beak, the sound that emerged was not a bird's cry.
It was a screech—the cry of the Condor, the spirit of the underworld, the judgment of the ancient gods.
He dove.
Laffitte's eyes widened—just slightly—as the massive bird hurtled toward him. He spun in the air, ballet slippers finding purchase on nothing, cane coming up to block.
Too slow.
Bō-Zak's talons raked across his arm, tearing through white fabric, leaving red lines behind. Laffitte hissed—an actual hiss, like a cat—and kicked away, putting distance between them.
"Feisty," he murmured, his voice carrying that strange, lilting quality that made everything sound like a threat wrapped in politeness. "I wasn't told the local wildlife had such spirit."
Bō-Zak wheeled in the air, coming around for another pass. His golden eyes blazed. His feathers ruffled with rage.
"Local wildlife?" His voice emerged from the condor's throat, rough and terrible. "I'm the Condor, you over-dressed Hoofer. And you just attacked my home."
Laffitte smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"Then I suppose we're even," he said, raising his cane again, "because I'm about to attack you."
He blew another dart.
Bō-Zak dodged—barely—feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his feathers. He countered with a clawed strike that Laffitte twisted away from, their bodies weaving an impossible dance in the smoke-filled sky.
Below them, the festival burned.
Vasco Shot laughed.
Doc Q circled.
And the people of Tawantin ran and screamed and died.
Bō-Zak's chest tightened. His home. His people. His responsibility.
He screamed again—a challenge, a warning, a prayer—and threw himself at Laffitte with everything he had.
The white-suited assassin met him mid-air, cane flashing, smile never faltering.
And the dance continued.
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