The remaining two scramble over the molten ruin of their leader. They do not aim for me. They see the small, unarmored human lingering in the shadows behind my shoulder, and their priority shifts. They want the anchor.
One enforcer lunges past my guard, his short-sword arcing directly toward Purna’s throat.
A spike of pure, unadulterated terror pierces my sternum. The feral instinct to protect her violently overrides my hatred. I pivot, bringing my broadsword around to sever the threat, but I am a split second too late.
Mireya does not scream. She ducks the sweeping blade, her hand darting out to snatch a discarded dagger from the fallen enforcer on the steps. She thrusts the weapon upward, driving the steel into the unprotected gap of the second attacker's thigh armor.
The Dark Elf roars in pain, his momentum faltering. He backhands her with his heavy gauntlet, sending her crashing against the raw stone wall.
The sight of her striking the masonry shears the last thread of my control. I close the distance, driving my bare hand around the enforcer's throat. The rot blooms instantly, turning his flesh to ash before he can draw another breath. He crumbles into dust upon the stairs.
I turn to her. She is pushing herself up from the stone, a thin line of blood weeping from her split lip, her fingers sparking with uncontrolled, erratic flares of violet and gold magic.
"Drop the steel," I snarl, the words a jagged, punishing edge. I step over the ash, looming over her, masking the crippling terror in my chest with pure, venomous authority. "You are untrained. You are a liability. Do not pretend to be a soldier on my floorboards."
She looks up at me, the dark eyes fierce and bruised. "I stopped him."
"You nearly died," I counter, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "And if you die before I permit it, this entire estate detonates. Stay behind me, Purna. Try to remember you are the plague, not the cure."
The harshness of my own words cuts me, but I turn away, refusing to acknowledge the flinch in her posture.
We push through the lower arches, entering the sprawling expanse of the eastern wing. The smoke here is a thick, impenetrable wall. As we cross the threshold of the grand gallery, the air pressure suddenly, violently spikes.
It is a trap.
Two dozen Vanguard enforcers drop from the elevated balconies, landing in a perfect perimeter around us. They do not draw swords. They slam heavy, hexagonal metallic discs onto the marble floor.
Suppression sigils.
The moment the null-iron mechanisms engage, a heavy, invisible dome of anti-magic slams down over the gallery. The air turns to lead. The black-gold veins on my arms violently recoil, the magic choking in my blood. The agony is instantaneous—a searing, internal fire as the curse, unable to project outward, begins to feed aggressively on my own internal organs.
I drop to one knee, a ragged gasp tearing from my throat, using the broadsword as a crutch to keep from collapsing entirely.
"Take the anchor!" a Vanguard captain barks, pointing a heavy null-iron blade directly at the Purna.
He lunges.
I force my failing muscles to obey. I throw my body between them, raising my broadsword to deflect the strike. The heavynull-iron blade slides off my guard, but the sheer momentum of his charge carries the weapon forward. The serrated edge of the anti-magic steel slices across my ribs.
The collision of null-iron against my cursed flesh is catastrophic.
A blinding white agony detonates behind my eyes. The curse destabilizes entirely, ripping through my nervous system like shattered glass. I hit the marble floor hard, the broadsword clattering out of reach. The captain raises his blade to finish the execution.
"No!"
Mireya’s scream slams into me akin to a shockwave.
She throws herself in front of me, her bare hands thrust outward. The raw, untethered magic she has been trying to suppress violently erupts. A concussive blast of pure, kinetic force slams into the Vanguard captain, lifting his heavy armored form off the ground and throwing him thirty feet across the gallery, shattering a stone pillar on impact.
The remaining enforcers stagger backward, their suppression sigils flickering under the sheer, un-attuned output of her survival instinct.
I push myself up, my hand clutching the bleeding, burning wound at my ribs. I look at her, her chest heaving, her hands smoking with residual power. She saved my life. The witch who ruined me just used her magic to shield my body from the blade.
"Can you stand?" she demands, reaching a hand down to help me.
I ignore her hand, dragging myself up using the wall. "I despise your magic," I grind out through clenched teeth, the lie acidic on my tongue. I cannot thank her. I cannot blur the lines.
She is my arch enemy.
