“I tear it apart.”
The plan forms between us without discussion. Zephyra exposes. I destroy. Her truth strips away protection; my power tears through what remains. Partnership in violence, the same way we’ve been partnered in everything else.
I grip her waist without conscious thought. The touch is proprietary—staking claim in a way I couldn’t have justified a week ago. Her body leans into mine with the ease of familiarity, and the recognition that we’ve built that familiarity lands with unexpected weight.
“We need more data.” Her voice is business, but her body tells a different story. She’s pressed against my side, her hand fisted in the fabric of my shirt. “How far does your power reach now? What happens when we use our abilities together? Can we?—”
I kiss her.
Not strategy. Not tactics. I kiss her because she’s standing there cataloging our enhanced abilities to kill gods, and the combination of competence and ruthlessness is doing things to my control that I’d rather act on than examine.
She responds immediately. Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me closer while her mouth opens under mine. The kiss is brief but thorough—a claiming as much as an interruption.
When I pull back, her pupils are dilated, her breath unsteady. But her mind is already reengaging.
“We still need data.”
“Later.” I release her waist, though my hand drags across the small of her back before letting go. “First, we hunt.”
We trackIce Sentinels for the next three hours.
The Arbiter’s soldiers are easier to find now—my expanded power seems to draw them, the Arbiter sensing the threat I’ve become and sending creatures to investigate. We encounter the first patrol half a mile from the shelter: four Sentinels moving in coordinated formation, ice-forged weapons gleaming.
Before the mating, fighting four sentinels required careful tactics. Hit them while they’re reforming, avoid being overwhelmed by numbers. I’ve killed hundreds of them over the centuries using exactly those methods.
Today, I walk through them.
My power expands as I approach—not the subtle disruption I’m accustomed to, but active annihilation. The first sentinel’s weapon dissolves in its hands. The second tries to strike; my fist tears through its torso before the blow lands, divine ice shattering like common glass. The third and fourth move to flank me; I catch one by the throat and use its body to destroy the other.
It takes eleven seconds. None of them reform.
Zephyra watches from a distance, her Auric Veil recording data. When I turn to face her, she nods once—an acknowledgment of capability, not praise. I don’t need praise. I need her to understand what I can do now, what we can do together.
“You’re not destroying them—you’re destroying the magic that holds them together.” She moves forward, examining the scattered fragments of divine ice. “They can’t reform because the magic itself fails when you touch it.”
“The Arbiter can’t rebuild them fast enough to matter.”
“Correct.” She rises from her crouch, brushing ice crystals from her hands. “The herald that wounded me was tier four. If you can destroy tier one this easily…”
“Tier four will be harder. But possible.”
“And the Arbiter itself is stronger than any of its soldiers.” She joins me at my side, our arms pressed together. “But its crown-heart is still the source. Destroy that, and the rest falls apart.”
“Which I can do. Now.”
We stand among the shattered remains of four divine soldiers, discussing the death of a god-forged executioner like it’s a logistics problem. The absurdity of it strikes me briefly—this witch I claimed days ago, standing beside me as an equal, planning violence with the same exacting focus she brings to everything else.
The dragon doesn’t find it absurd. The dragon finds itright.
“We should test fighting together.” She’s already moving, her tactical mind several steps ahead. “Find more of its creatures. I expose, you strike. See how our powers work in combination.”
I follow. I’ve been following her lead more often than I’d like to admit—her sight guides us better than my instinct in this realm of divine ice. But I don’t mind the way I once might have. She’s earned the trust. Earned it with competence and steel.
Some truths are better left unspoken.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TYR
