The eight-winged figure didn't land.
It stopped, without even a single flap of its wings, it hovered roughly twenty feet above the scorched earth, its eight wings spread wide and motionless, holding it in place with the kind of stillness that suggested gravity was a courtesy it had chosen to dismiss.
Its golden greathelm turned slowly.
There were no eyes behind it. No visor or opening of any kind. Just smooth, seamless gold that caught the light and threw it back, and yet despite that, despite the absolute absence of anything to see with, Damon felt, with complete and unambiguous certainty, that it was looking directly at him.
The way its presence stretched toward him made it clear that it wasn't here for Ivy or Nyla.
It was here for him.
"Step back," he said quietly.
"What?" Nyla's voice was low and cautious, her hammer was already summoned, her eyes never leaving the winged figure before them.
"Both of you. Step back." Damon repeated.
"Damon—"
"Now."
