He makes it approximately six feet before I catch him.
“The communication equipment.” I don’t release him. “Disable it.”
“The Cardinal will?—”
I apply pressure to his shoulder. Bone grinds. He screams.
“Disable it.”
He disables it. Tanith watches with an expression I can’t read—not approval, not condemnation, simply observation. When the equipment lies inert, she moves to examine the ritual frameworks embedded in the walls.
“This node is connected to at least twelve cells.” Her fingers trace patterns I can’t perceive. “Communication relays, coordination protocols, resource distribution networks. Taking it down will blind the Choir’s eastern operations for weeks.”
“Then take it down.”
She begins the methodical work of ending the frameworks. I keep the lieutenant immobilized, not because he poses a threat but because releasing him would require acknowledging that his continued existence serves no purpose.
“The witch.” His voice emerges thready, pain-thinned. “The Cardinal… wants her magic. Wants to… replicate her bloodline. Create an army of… of endings.”
The information isn’t new. Syrren’s intelligence briefing covered the Cardinal’s interest in Tanith’s capabilities. But hearing it from a source who has direct contact with the Choir’s leadership sparks a response I don’t fully control.
My grip tightens. More bone grinds.
“The Cardinal won’t have her.”
“You can’t… protect her forever. The Choir is… everywhere. We’ll find her. We’ll take her. And when the Cardinal’s work is complete?—”
I end his ability to speak. My domain erases precisely and selectively—his voice, his connection to the Choir’s network, his capacity to transmit what he knows about her.
He collapses into soundless screaming, hands clawing at a face that no longer contains the ability to speak.
Tanith has stopped her work. She watches me with those gray eyes that see too much, that cut through the tactical justifications I might offer to reach the truth beneath.
“Arax.”
I don’t respond.
“Arax.” She moves to my side, her hand rising to touch my arm. The contact anchors me in a way I don’t expect—pulling me back from the edge of the Oblivion domain that wants to expand, that wants to erase everything that threatens what I’m only beginning to acknowledge as mine. “He’s done. He can’t hurt anyone.”
The lieutenant writhes at my feet, bleeding from a wound that won’t heal without magical intervention he will never receive.
“He threatened you.”
“He delivered a message. A message you’ve already heard.” Her grip on my arm tightens, demanding my attention. “He’s done, Arax. Finish it.”
I finish it.
When I turn back to her, she hasn’t released my arm.
“You lost control.”
“Yes.”
“Because he threatened me.”
I don’t deny it.
“That’s not tactical, Arax. That’s not strategic. That’s—” She stops, searching for words that won’t come. “That’s personal.”
