“Then we need a different approach.” I turn back to the map, tracing the node positions with one finger. “These three sites are the framework’s primary anchors. Without them, the redundancy fails. The cells can still operate, but they can’t achieve the catastrophic collapse they’re working toward.”
“You’re suggesting precision strikes.”
“I’m suggesting we stop treating this like a military campaign and start treating it like surgery.” I meet Vaelrix’s gaze directly—a choice that probably violates some dragon protocol I’m unaware of. “Mass elimination won’t work. The Choir has planned for it. What they haven’t planned for is someone who understands their ritual architecture well enough to cut the supports out from under them.”
“And you understand this architecture.”
“Better than anyone else in this tent, obviously.”
The claim hangs in the air, bold and possibly suicidal. I’ve effectively told a room full of apex predators that I know more than they do about the threat they’ve been fighting for decades.
Arax’s presence at my side intensifies. Not moving, not speaking, but radiating a focused attention that I feel against my skin like sunlight.
“The primary anchors.” Vaelrix returns her attention to the map. “Show me.”
I point to three positions—two in the northern reaches of the Choir’s territory, one in the southeast. “These sites are different from the others. The ritual signatures are older, more stable. They’ve been active for years, not months. Everything else the Choir has built connects back to these three points.”
“They’re the foundation.”
“They’re the spine. Collapse them, and everything attached falls apart.”
“And the people in those sites? Conducting the rituals?”
“Most of them die.” I don’t soften the assessment. “The ritual backlash when an anchor collapses is severe. Anyone within the immediate vicinity won’t survive it.”
“But the surrounding settlements—the civilians caught in the larger collapse—they survive.”
“Yes.”
Vaelrix considers this. I watch her process the trade-off.
But the way she’s looking at me suggests she expected a different answer.
“Most witches I’ve encountered would argue for attempting to save everyone. Would insist on finding a solution that doesn’t require any deaths.”
“Most witches haven’t spent years watching the Choir unmake entire cities.” I don’t look away. “I don’t enjoy acceptable losses. I don’t pretend they’re anything other than what they are—people who die because the alternative is worse. But I stopped believing in bloodless solutions a long time ago.”
Silence. Then, unexpectedly, Vaelrix’s mouth curves—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of respect that surprises me.
“Scaleleaf.” She doesn’t look away from me. “Your assessment?”
“Her analysis is correct. Her proposed strategy is tactically sound.” A pause. “And her understanding of acceptable losses is… appropriate.”
Coming from a dragon assassin, that’s practically a ringing endorsement.
“Very well.” Vaelrix straightens, her decision made. “We proceed with precision strikes against the three anchor sites. Scaleleaf, you’ll coordinate the assault teams. The witch?—”
“Tanith.” Arax’s correction is immediate and flat. “Her name is Tanith.”
Another silence. I feel the ripple of surprise pass through the assembled officers—the Ashen Flight’s most emotionally detached operative, correcting his commanding officer on behalf of a human.
Vaelrix’s expression doesn’t change, but her attention sharpens on Arax in a way that makes me want to step between them.
“Tanith,” she continues, the name precise on her tongue, “will provide intelligence support. Her expertise on Choir ritual frameworks is apparently unmatched.”
