A gust of power flashed from the god's hand, trailing from one angel to another, sparking like lightning between the generations till it reached the last one of them. It jumped from them to the blood left in mortals and soon reached Serin's veins, her sorceress blood boiled with holy magic.
Arad saw Serin's eyes flashing golden, and the yellow flame expanded to her tiny right palm.
It wasn't a threat. He didn't feel any bloodlust or malice. It was but a child singing her palm, but with the power of a god behind it, a holy smite was coming down.
Being a sorcerer isn't fun, and no one questions why most of them are orphans. Burning their houses down as toddlers, or electrocuting their parents in a hug. Those accidents were common and the starting point of the life of many sorcerers who tried to seek control over their powers.
