TWO
TANITH
He emerges from the ash like a blade from a sheath.
Tall. Lean. Built for speed rather than dominance displays—a killer engineered for efficiency, not spectacle. Dark bronze skin marked with faint branching scars that run along his arms and disappear beneath his close-fitted clothing. Those pale traceries glow faintly in the ash-choked air, evidence of power turned inward, of his own domain touching his flesh and leaving permanent marks.
His hair is black with silver-green undertones that catch what little light filters through the storm, tied back in a practical knot that keeps it from his face while he works. The style is ruthlessly efficient. No vanity. No consideration beyond function.
His eyes are void-dark.
Not black—absent. Like someone has erased the color entirely, leaving gaps where irises should be. Dragon eyes in human form. Oblivion-touched eyes that see endings in everything they observe.
I’ve never seen anything like them. I’ve never wanted to run from anything so badly in my life.
He moves through the cultists like they’re obstacles to be removed rather than enemies to be fought. No wasted motion. No hesitation. His fire doesn’t burn—it ends. Matter touched by those flames simply ceases to exist, leaving geometric voids in the air where bodies used to be.
I’ve heard of dragons like this. The Ashen Flight. Assassins and erasers who serve functions the other flights prefer not to acknowledge. They unmake problems. They eliminate threats so completely that even the memory of those threats becomes unstable.
They terrify even other dragons.
The final cultist tries to run. The dragon doesn’t chase—his power simply expands, and the cultist stops existing mid-stride.
Silence descends.
The ash storm continues to swirl, but it feels different. Calmer. As if the presence of this dragon has steadied the corrupted magic itself.
I notice this immediately. My blood notices. The strain against my wards eases by several degrees, and I don’t understand why.
He turns to face me.
Those void eyes assess me—no emotion, no recognition, just analysis. He catalogs my wounds, my position, the pack I dropped, the bloodline magic still flickering at my fingertips. He sees everything and reveals nothing.
“Yael witch.”
His voice is flat. Precise. Words as tools, nothing more.
“Dragon.” I don’t try to stand. My ankle is already swelling, and showing weakness to a predator is dangerous, but showing false strength is worse. Dragons can smell lies. “I’d thank you for the assist, but you weren’t saving me.”
“No.”
“You were eliminating a threat that happened to include my attackers.”
“Yes.”
At least he’s honest.
I watch him watch me, and I calculate my options. Running is impossible—he moves faster than I can track, and my ankle won’t support a sprint. Fighting is suicide. He just erased a dozen without taking a second breath. My Termination magic might be able to end some of his spellwork, but I’ve never tested my bloodline against Oblivion-domain power, and this seems like a poor time to experiment.
That leaves waiting. Observing. Making myself small enough to not register as a threat while I figure out what he wants.
“The Ash Choir wants me alive.” I keep my voice steady. “Their Cardinal thinks my bloodline is key to some greater ending they’re planning.”
His expression doesn’t change. That dark gaze continues its assessment, and I realize he’s not looking at me—he’s looking at my magic. At the bloodline gift flickering along my damaged hands.
“Termination without residue.” His tone carries no inflection. Statement of fact. “The Yael line. Thought extinct.”
“Nearly extinct. There’s a difference.”
