“Yes. Scaleleaf’s assistance.” Vaelrix’s attention shifts to me, and I see the calculation happening behind her eyes. She’s known me for decades—has deployed me on dozens of missions, witnessed my domain at work, understood exactly what I amand what I’m capable of. She’s trying to reconcile that knowledge with whatever she observes now.
I keep my expression neutral. Reveal nothing.
“The synchronization described in your joint report is… unusual.” Vaelrix returns her attention to the maps spread across the table. “Your magic apparently complements each other in ways that exceed standard alliance parameters.”
“Her Termination abilities are effective against Choir frameworks. My erasure handles physical infrastructure. The combination is tactically efficient.”
“Tactically efficient.” Vaelrix’s tone carries an edge I recognize—the same skepticism she applies to all explanations that seem too convenient. “Is that why you’ve been traveling in her company for almost a week? Tactical efficiency?”
“She possesses intelligence regarding Choir operations that is best gathered through direct observation.”
“Gathered by you specifically.”
“I was present at the ritual site where we met. Continuity of intelligence collection is standard protocol.”
Vaelrix studies me for a long moment. I hold her gaze and offer nothing—no reaction, no explanation beyond what I’ve provided, no indication that her probing has reached anything I wish to conceal.
“Syrren.” She breaks eye contact first. “Report.”
The intelligence runner steps forward, producing a document case from their pack. “The information was confirmed through three independent sources. The Ash Cardinal has issued specific instructions regarding the Yael witch.”
My domain stirs. I suppress the response before it can manifest visibly, but the effort requires more control than I anticipated.
“What instructions?”
“She’s to be captured alive.” Syrren spreads documents across the table—intercepts, informant reports, ritual analysis. “Multiple Choir cells have received coordinated orders to prioritize her acquisition over all other objectives. The Cardinal wants her intact, undamaged, delivered to a location that remains unidentified.”
“There’s additional context.” Syrren produces a secondary document—older, its edges worn. “The Choir maintains historical records of previous Yael witches. The Cardinal’s interest in this bloodline isn’t new. It appears to be the culmination of a program spanning generations.”
Tanith moves closer to examine the documents. Her arm grazes mine as she leans forward—a fleeting touch that sends awareness cascading through my senses. I don’t move away.
“Why?” No fear in her voice. Only sharp, analytical interest. “The Choir’s philosophy doesn’t distinguish between targets. They want to end everything. Why would the Cardinal want me specifically preserved?”
“Your bloodline.” Vaelrix’s response is immediate. “Termination magic is the closest existing analog to the erasure they’re attempting to achieve at scale. The Cardinal may intend to replicate your abilities—synthesize them into their ritual frameworks, build a shortcut to capabilities that would otherwise require generations. Or—” she pauses, “—the Cardinal may intend something more direct. Less of a replication and more of a single catastrophic use. The distinction matters. Our intelligence doesn’t yet tell us which.”
The words produce an immediate response—not visible, not voluntary, but absolute. My domain surges with focused destruction, erasure magic gathering at my fingertips with an intensity I haven’t experienced outside combat situations.
No one touches her.
The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. The Cardinal’s plans—whatever they are—won’t be executed. Tanith won’t be captured, harvested, or delivered anywhere. She stays with me. She stays where I can protect her. She stays.
“Scaleleaf.” Vaelrix’s voice cuts through the haze of protective fury. “Control yourself.”
I realize my power has begun to manifest visibly—faint distortions around my hands where reality is responding to my intent. I pull it back with effort that leaves my jaw tight and my hands unsteady.
Tanith is watching me. Her expression reveals nothing, but her eyes hold a question I can’t answer without revealing more than I intend.
“The witch requires protection.” I direct my words to Vaelrix, keeping my voice level through sheer discipline. “I will provide it.”
“You’ll provide it.” The Commander’s tone is flat. “Without consultation. Without orders. You’ve simply decided.”
“Yes.”
The single word hangs in the air. Vaelrix’s eyes narrow, and I see her processing what she’s witnessing—an assassin of the Ashen Flight, renowned for emotional detachment and absolute obedience, making unilateral decisions regarding a human asset.
“The Flight has resources specifically allocated for protection details. Specialists whose domains are better suited?—”
“No,” I force calm into my voice. “I will handle this personally.”
“Why?”
Her question requires truth. I give her tactical justification instead.
“She is the only fixed point in a world I am paid to unmake. I will not have her under the eyes of your ‘specialists,’ Vaelrix. Ifanother dragon attempts to touch her or catalog her, I will erase them with as much indifference as I do the ash.”
I’ve never requested a protection assignment. Have never shown interest in preserving any asset beyond immediate mission parameters. Have never, in all my centuries of service, looked at a human the way I apparently look at Tanith.
“Granted.”
The word surprises me.
