I release her as soon as she’s stable. The phantom sensation of her grip lingers.
“We should move.” I keep my voice flat, professional. “The battle will have attracted attention. There may be more cells in the area.”
“Agreed.”
She doesn’t comment on the fact that I’m already scanning our perimeter. Doesn’t point out that my body has positioned itself between her and the most likely angle of approach. The protection is automatic now—reflex rather than decision.
We navigate out of the market district in silence, stepping over bodies and around the smooth-edged absences that scar the landscape. The shelter I want lies half a mile to the north—a partially intact structure that will provide cover until we can assess our situation.
The battle replays in my mind as we walk.
The synchronization disturbs me. Never have I moved with another combatant the way I moved with Tanith, never tracked another’s position with the instinctive precision I tracked hers.
This isn’t normal.
We shelter in a partially intact guard post half a mile north.
“That was coordinated.” Her voice breaks the silence. “They knew we were coming.”
“The Choir has intelligence networks throughout the Reach. Our passage through the Dead Roads would have been observed.”
“They set an ambush in Niren Hollow specifically. They knew our route.”
“Probable.” I consider the implications, none of them reassuring.
“The anchoring ritual.” She shifts topics without acknowledgment, and I recognize the deliberate choice to move past my failure. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“The Choir developed it within the last year. Initial reports suggested it was theoretical.” I review what I observed during the battle, comparing it to intelligence briefings I received months ago. “The willing sacrifice element appears to be essential. Unwilling anchors destabilize too quickly.”
“Willing.” The word carries weight when she speaks it. “They chose that. Chose to be consumed.”
“The Cardinal’s philosophy provides context that makes the choice coherent. To them, individual existence is suffering. Dissolution into the greater work is release.”
“That’s insane.”
“That is theology. The distinction is often unclear.”
The corner of her lips twitches upward—wry, unexpected. The expression transforms her features in ways I shouldn’t be noticing, softening the hard lines of survival into a version of her that seems almost approachable.
I notice anyway.
“You sound like you understand them.”
“I understand endings.” I keep my voice neutral, revealing nothing of the observation I just made about her face.
“You don’t believe existence is suffering.”
“I don’t believe anything. Belief is irrelevant to my function.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
She studies me across the space between us, her gaze weighted with consideration I feel even without meeting her eyes.
“The way we fought.” She voices what I’ve been avoiding. “That wasn’t normal.”
“No.”
