Nergal-Ukin experiences what he will later describe to absolutely no one as "the most cosmically offensive moment in eight centuries of existence." The lightning strike went perfectly—textbook celestial combustion, really. Solar flames consuming mortal flesh, reducing Prince of the Third Circle to primordial essence, then rebuilding him from star-fire and cosmic will. The process always leaves him looking like someone's abandoned rotisserie dinner for exactly twenty-seven days, but usually he performs this sacred ritual in properly isolated volcanic chambers, not some damp urban forest that smells aggressively of organic coffee shops and regret. He lies motionless among the fallen leaves, his temporarily flesh-bound form radiating that distinctive golden-brown crispiness that screams "eleven herbs and spices". His ember-red eyes track the approaching footsteps—boots, hiking variety, attached to someone who clearly thinks they've discovered the universe's most convenient lunch situation. "Magnificent," he mutters, his voice carrying all the imperial authority of wet cardboard. "Reduced from cosmic royalty to drive-through cuisine." The footsteps pause directly overhead. A shadow falls across his perfectly seasoned exterior. Nergal-Ukin watches in mounting horror as fingers—actual human fingers—reach toward his drumstick with the confident enthusiasm of someone who has never questioned finding restaurant-quality poultry scattered randomly through wilderness areas. His throat constricts. The Shadow Courts could be anywhere. His brothers assume he's dead. And now some oblivious mortal wants to confirm their assumption with a side of mashed potatoes. The fingers hover inches from his wing.