They didn’t rush. She looked barely alive.
One of the guards whispered, “Careful. If we tear her open again, she’ll bleed out.”
And they didn’t notice when she slipped her hand into the robe of the priest who had held the brazier.
Didn’t feel the small, bone-handled knife vanish into her fingers.
Didn’t see the flicker of focus behind her half-lidded eyes.
They lifted her carefully. Carried her like a sacred deity, or a body absent. Blood dripped from her fingertips, trailing behind like a second signature.
Then, she moved.
It was not strength. It was not speed. It was pure will.
She twisted midair, elbow slamming into the temple of the younger guard. He staggered, crying out. She hit the ground hard, her body folding around the pain, but she rolled, already rising.
The crowd gasped.
The King had just turned away when he heard the scuffle. He pivoted in time to see her, broken and bare-footed, dragging herself upright, blood slicking her chest and thighs, hair stuck to her face like black sinew.
And the knife. Small. Filthy. Glinting in her grip.
She looked at him and ran.
It wasn’t fast. Her body was torn. She limped, lurched, almost crawling at first; but she moved, driven by something not even the Veil could name. A scream rose from the priests. Guards shouted.
The King backed away, stunned. “Stop her, stop her!”
But she was too close. No one reached her in time.
She tackled him at the base of the dais, the knife already coming down.
The first stab landed in his shoulder. He shrieked.
The second hit his collarbone, splitting skin and cartilage.
The third, buried in the soft place beneath his rib, and stayed there.
He scrabbled at her, howling. “You ungrateful—” he spat, trying to shove her off, blood bubbling from his mouth.
But she kept going.
Her face was blank. Her hand was soaked to the wrist.
She carved.
Again.
And again.
And again.
She wasn't aiming for the heart. Not really.
She was erasing him, shaving away his shape, his mark, the place he had taken in the world. She opened his chest like a seam, drove the blade through the Eye brand on his sternum, tore symbols from his skin the way he'd tried to carve them into her.
“You will leave nothing behind,” she whispered.
