Their hesitation costs them.
I cover the distance in a breath. The first dies to my hands around his skull, my domain erasing the consciousness inside before the body can register the threat. The second attempts to invoke a protection ritual; I end the ritual and the invoker simultaneously. The third?—
The third is running.
Not toward us. Away. Toward a side street that would take him deeper into the cursed district, toward the command node we came to eliminate.
Toward the ability to report our position and Tanith’s presence to the larger Choir network.
I pursue.
The cultist is fast for a human, his body enhanced by the ritual modifications the Choir favors. He weaves through corrupted architecture with the familiarity of long residence, ducking through doorways that pulse with hostile magic, vaulting over rubble that would dissolve an unprotected person.
I’m faster.
I catch him at the intersection where the side street meets a small plaza. My hand closes on his shoulder, spinning him to face me. His features are indistinct with erasure corruption, but his eyes are clear enough—wide with terror, fixed on my face with the desperate focus of a creature that knows it’s about to die.
“Please.” The word emerges garbled, his voice damaged by whatever rituals he has undergone. “I can tell you where the lieutenant hides. I can give you the network codes. I can?—”
“You attempted to separate us.”
The words emerge flat, without emphasis. I’m not asking a question or making an accusation. I’m stating a fact that requires no elaboration.
“The witch—the Cardinal wants?—”
His mouth works, searching for arguments that might save him. There are none. The moment he moved to block the street behind us, the moment his cell chose to position itself between Tanith and any escape route, his fate became fixed.
I erase him.
When I return to Tanith, she’s finished securing the elimination site. Bodies lie in precise positions—those she ended and those I ended, arranged by the systematic work of someone ensuring no survivors. Her breathing has normalized. Her eyes track my approach with measuring focus.
“The runner?”
“Eliminated.”
She nods. Doesn’t ask for details. Doesn’t question why I pursued a fleeing target through hostile territory rather than letting him report our position and triggering a larger response. She trusts my judgment.
The trust isn’t misplaced, but my judgment has become compromised in ways I’m only starting to recognize.
We continue toward the command node.
