NINE
TANITH
The shelter holds.
I repeat this fact to myself as night falls over Niren Hollow, watching the darkness press against the partial walls that surround us. The shelter holds. We survived the ambush. We are alive.
The words ring hollow in a city where forty thousand people are not.
Arax has built another fire—smaller than last night’s, positioned to minimize light leakage while maximizing heat retention.
My body aches from the battle—muscles pulled, bruises forming, the deep exhaustion that comes from pushing Termination magic past comfortable limits. But my mind refuses to quiet.
The city outside our shelter tells a story I can’t stop reading.
I rise from my position near the fire and move to the gap in the wall that serves as a window. Niren Hollow spreads before me in the failing light, its wounds visible even in darkness.
They were here just seven months ago.
Now the only evidence of their existence is absence—the negative space they left behind, the outline of a city that no longer contains a city.
“You should rest.”
Arax’s voice cuts through my contemplation. I don’t turn from the window.
“I’m thinking.”
“Thinking doesn’t require standing in an exposed position.”
“This isn’t exposed. You cleared the surrounding terrain.”
A pause. I feel his attention on my back, that weighted awareness I’ve grown accustomed to over the past days. He watches me constantly. I’ve stopped pretending I don’t notice.
“What are you thinking about?”
The question surprises me. He doesn’t ask questions like this—personal questions, questions that invite disclosure rather than operational analysis. His conversation style runs toward statements and observations, information delivered without request for reciprocation.
“Cost.” I keep my gaze on the ruined cityscape. “I’m thinking about what this costs.”
The silence that follows has a different texture than his usual pauses. Heavier. I turn from the window to find him watching me with an expression I can’t read—not blank, exactly, but carefully controlled. Guarded in a way I haven’t seen since our first meeting.
“My cost.”
“You’ve been doing this for centuries. Eliminating threats, erasing problems, cleaning up after disasters like this one.” I gesture toward the window, toward the dead city beyond. “What does it cost to end things so completely? Year after year, century after century?”
“You’re asking about psychological damage.”
“I’m asking about you.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. The fire crackles softly between us—different from the hiss and pop of previous nights, a more natural sound that suggests the corruption here is less dense than other territories we’ve crossed.
I wait.
Arax isn’t a man who fills silence with chatter. If he’s going to answer, he’ll do it on his own timeline. Pushing won’t help. So I return to my position near the fire and lower myself cross-legged to the ground, giving him space to decide whether this conversation continues.
The minutes stretch. The fire burns low. I’m about to give up and attempt sleep when he speaks.
“I remember all of them.”
