Before he could strike, she transformed into a cloud of insects, swirling around him with a sinister grace. Just as he prepared to retaliate, a massive arm struck him from behind, knocking him down once more. Naamaah settled onto his back, her weight pressing him into the ground, pinning him beneath her.
“What Habondia is doing can be dangerous,” she said, her voice low and urgent, almost lost in the cacophony of buzzing wings. “She does not seem to notice, but someone wants to get her out of the way. Völundr warned her once, but she ignored his advice. She believes her actions are a crusade to save the world, without realizing that she might destroy it in the process.”
Kyrie felt the gravity of her words sink into his consciousness, a chilling realization dawning on him. He struggled against Naamaah’s hold, his body thrumming with a desperate need to escape, but her weight was unyielding.
“Why should I trust you?” Kyrie grunted, his voice strained, each word punctuated by the effort of resisting her. “You speak of danger, yet you’re the one who has brought this chaos upon us!”
Naamaah’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “I understand your anger, Kyrie. You and I want the same thing.”
“You want what I want?”
“We both want to find peace.”
Kyrie pushed himself up from the ground, disoriented and gasping for breath. He found himself standing twenty feet away as he locked eyes with Naamaah. She regarded him with intrigue, her brow furrowed, but something about her presence felt ominous. Her torso and face were back to being her human self. However, the lower half of her body and her arms had transformed into a swirling black cloud, tendrils of darkness coiling and twisting like smoke caught in a tempest.
Suddenly, she unleashed a barrage of spears made of smoke, sharp and deadly. Kyrie dodged the first two, adrenaline fueling his movements, but the third found its mark, piercing his side. Pain radiated through him, a fiery agony that made him gasp. Blood spilled from his lips, hot and metallic, soaking into the earth beneath him. Dazed and desperate, he tore off the coat he wore. The heat that enveloped him felt hellish, but he would rather endure that than expose the missing arm he had hidden beneath the fabric. The S-shaped markings etched across his skin.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
"You are not even honest with yourself," Naamaah said. "You try to hide those things that you believe make you vulnerable when in reality, they are your main strength."
Her words struck a nerve, igniting an ember of anger deep within Kyrie. He launched his weapon like a boomerang, the metallic rod slicing through the air with a whistle. Naamaah countered, propelling herself toward him with wings crafted from moths, a surreal sight that momentarily distracted him. She struck his weapon with the force of her forehead, and in an instant, she shattered into hundreds of pieces, each fragment scattering like falling stars.
Before he could catch his breath, she reformed into a demon once again, surging toward him with relentless speed. A moment later, she hurled him upwards with incredible force, sending him soaring hundreds of feet into the air. The ground rushed up to meet him as he began to fall, twisting and spiraling in a chaotic descent. The world around him blurred into a dark whirlwind, an unsettling aura enveloping Naamaah as she looked up at him from below, her expression unreadable.
Just before he crashed to the ground, Naamaah caught him in her arms, her grip surprisingly gentle despite the chaotic energy that surrounded her. “If we were not inside the Gate, you would have died in the fall," she stated matter-of-factly.
Kyrie, fueled by rage and humiliation, struggled against her hold, attempting to strike at her face. But his movements were futile as he slipped from her grasp and landed back on the ground. Naamaah quickly seated herself on him again, her calm demeanor contrasting sharply with the turmoil surging inside him.
She went back on her feet to circle him, walking gracefully around his prone form, Kyrie felt a mix of frustration and confusion. “Why are you following Habondia?” he spat, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, staining the earth beneath him.
“Because I want to be able to say my name without anyone dying,” she replied, her voice softer now, tinged with an emotion he could not quite place. “Because I don’t want this cursed power anymore.”
“Your name?” Kyrie asked, forcing himself to stand despite the protest of his aching back, every movement sending sharp pangs through his body.
“Yes,” Naamaah replied, a storm of emotions swirling in her dark eyes in her human form. “My name has become a weapon, a curse that has brought pain to those around me. I want to reclaim it, to speak it freely without fear of what might happen next.”
Kyrie furrowed his brow, confusion knotting in his stomach. “What do you mean?”
Naamaah turned her gaze toward the Pyramid of Kukulkan, melancholy etching deeper lines across her face. “Naamaah is not my true name. One of the conditions of my curse is that I must call myself like that forever. Naamaah was a demon who abducted my son. Before I could kill her, she cursed me, granting me her powers and binding me to her name.”