FIFTEEN
ARAX
The cursed district breathes corruption.
I sense it before we breach the outer boundary—a wrongness in the magical substrate that sets my domain humming with recognition. The architecture here has been twisted by sustained ritual exposure, walls saturated with erasure magic until the stone itself has learned to whisper annihilation. Every surface radiates faint hostility. Every shadow carries intent.
“The walls are active.” Tanith’s voice cuts through my assessment. She stopped three paces behind me, her attention fixed on the building facades lining the narrow street. “I feel them reaching.”
She’s correct. The erasure enchantments woven into these structures aren’t passive defenses—they seek. The magic extends invisible tendrils toward any source of living energy, probing for weakness, testing for vulnerability. A human without magical protection would begin dissolving within minutes. Even a witch without specific resistance would find her power bleeding away.
I adjust my position, placing myself between Tanith and the most aggressive of the reaching spells. My domain pushes against theirs, Oblivion meeting erasure in a silent contestof wills. The walls recoil slightly—not from fear, but from recognition. They know what I am. They don’t want to touch it.
She moves closer. Three feet separate us, then two. I hear her breathing—controlled, measured, the rhythm of a professional managing stress. I sense the distinctive signature of her bloodline magic, that living current beneath the ash and exertion.
We advance through the cursed district in careful formation. The intelligence we received identified this location as a secondary command node—one of the Choir’s operational hubs that coordinates activity across multiple cells. The lieutenant who runs it has direct communication with the Cardinal’s inner circle. Eliminating him disrupts the coordination that makes the Choir so dangerous.
Eliminating him also removes one more person who knows Tanith’s location.
The thought arrives without invitation, and I don’t dismiss it. The strategic value of this mission is clear. The personal value is equally clear, though I choose not to examine it closely.
“Movement ahead.” Tanith’s warning is soft, barely a breath.
I see them. Six figures emerging from a building whose doorway still holds the ghost of a merchant’s sign. Their faces bear the characteristic blur of Choir devotion—identities eroding as the erasure magic they’ve embraced consumes their individuality. They move with the synchronized discipline of soldiers, spreading to block the street ahead.
Behind us, more movement. Eight additional members emerging from alcoves and shadows, closing the approach we used to enter. The trap was set before we arrived. They knew we were coming.
“The witch.” The words emerge in overlapping voices, that discordant chorus effect that marks the Choir’s most devoted.“Deliver her to us, dragon. The Cardinal’s mercy extends even to your kind.”
I assess the tactical situation instantly. Fourteen opponents. Cursed architecture providing them with defensive advantages. Tanith’s Termination magic effective but exhausting at scale. My Oblivion domain more than sufficient, but requiring concentration that would leave her exposed.
The obvious strategy: defensive posture, controlled withdrawal, eliminate the rear group first to open an escape route.
I don’t follow the obvious strategy.
I move.
The first cultist dies before the others register my absence from my starting position. My domain expands in a focused burst, erasing the ritual tattoos that anchor his borrowed power. Without those frameworks, he’s merely human—fragile, slow, already collapsing as his body realizes the magic sustaining it has vanished.
The second and third die in the same breath. I flow between them, my hands finding throats and snapping necks with brutal efficiency. No need to waste domain energy on targets this fragile. Physical elimination is faster.
Behind me, I hear Tanith engaging the rear group. The telltale silence that accompanies her Termination gift. A sharp exhale as she handles targets her magic can’t immediately neutralize. She’s holding her position, trusting me to clear the forward assault.
Good.
I erase the fourth cultist’s defensive wards and let his own corrupted magic consume him. The fifth attempts a flanking maneuver; I intercept him mid-stride, my elbow crushing his windpipe before he can complete the motion. The sixth—theone who spoke—attempts to retreat into the corrupted building behind him.
I don’t allow retreats.
My domain extends through the building’s structure, touching the erasure enchantments woven into its walls. For a moment, my power and the Choir’s magic resonate—both designed for ending, both hungry for dissolution. Then I assert dominance, and the building’s accumulated corruption turns inward.
The structure folds silently. No explosion, no collapse. The walls simply cease, taking the fleeing cultist with them. Where architecture stood moments ago, now there’s only emptiness—a clean void carved from reality.
I turn to assist Tanith with the rear group.
She doesn’t need assistance.
Five of the eight are already down—three ended by her Termination magic, two by what appears to be a knife she produced from somewhere in her clothing. The remaining three have hesitated, their formation disrupted by the unexpected ferocity of her defense.
