“Arax—”
They emerge from the truncated shadows of ruined stalls, sixteen of them, their faces blurred by the erasure magic that marks the Choir’s devoted. They have been waiting here. Waiting for us specifically, or waiting for anyone foolish enough to traverse Niren Hollow’s corpse.
The distinction doesn’t matter. The outcome will be the same.
“Termination bloodline.” The voice comes from multiple throats simultaneously, that unnerving chorus effect I’ve heard before. “The Cardinal’s patience grows thin. You will come with us.”
Tanith’s response is a surge of Termination magic that ends the first speaker mid-sentence. The zealot collapses, his connection to the Choir’s hive-mind severed along with the curse he was preparing to cast.
The battle begins.
I move without conscious thought, my domain expanding outward in controlled bursts of erasure. The Choir’s fighters scatter, regrouping with the tactical discipline of soldiers rather than fanatics. They have prepared for this. They know what I am.
Three of them break left, circling toward Tanith’s flank. I adjust my position to intercept, placing myself between her and the approaching threat. The movement is automatic—I don’t decide to protect her; I simply do.
The first flanker reaches striking distance. I erase him.
Not his body—that would be wasteful, and the Choir’s members often carry useful intelligence. I erase the magical framework he carries, the enhancement spells woven into his muscles and bones, the connection to the Cardinal’s network that allows coordinated assault.
He stumbles, suddenly mortal, suddenly alone in his head for the first time in months. I end his confusion with a blade across his throat.
The second flanker hesitates. I don’t.
Behind me, I hear Tanith working—the distinctive absence of sound that marks Termination magic, the soft grunt of physical exertion as she engages enemies her gift can’t immediately end. She’s holding her own. More than holding.
The third flanker attempts a flanking maneuver that would have worked against most opponents. He doesn’t account for my awareness of Tanith’s exact position—twelve feet to my right, currently engaged with two opponents, moving backward toward a partially intact market stall that will provide cover.
I adjust my angle to maintain clear sightlines to her while I engage.
The flanker dies wondering how I anticipated his approach.
“Arax!” Tanith’s voice cuts through the battle’s chaos. “They’re anchoring!”
I see it now—the remaining Choir members falling back, not in retreat but in formation. They’re positioning themselves at specific points around the market district, each one dropping to their knees and beginning a chant I recognize.
Living anchors.
“They’re using themselves as ritual nodes.” I process the tactical implications in fractions of a second. “If they complete the framework?—”
“I know what happens if they complete it.”
