“That’s why we’re here.”
The informant studies me for a long moment. Whatever he sees in my face makes a decision for him.
“The Veiled One.” He says the name like it burns his tongue. “That’s what the old texts call it. A god that doesn’t rule, doesn’t demand worship, doesn’t care about temples or prayers. It designs things. Creates monsters to eliminate problems before they become threats.”
He glances again at the eastern wall—a quick, practiced check, the reflex of someone who knows that saying certainwords in certain places has a cost. “They monitor sites like this. Old god-places where the information was stored. I’ve had twenty minutes in shrines before something comes through the wall.”
“We’re threats?”
“You’re potential.” His laugh carries no humor. “Anchor witches make death permanent. Predator dragons can kill anything they can reach. Separately, you’re manageable. Inconvenient at worst. But when an Anchor bonds with a Predator—” He shakes his head. “There are stories. Old stories. About what happens when those two bloodlines merge. The gods remember those stories, even if mortals have forgotten.”
“What happens?”
His gaze locks with mine. The weight of knowledge that has kept him running for years shows in the tension around his mouth, the hollows beneath his eyes. Knowledge that will kill him eventually, one way or another.
“Divine regeneration fails.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Permanently. The things gods make to protect themselves—the monsters, the shields, the endless armies that reform no matter how many times you kill them—they stop coming back. An Anchored Predator can kill gods themselves. Make them stay dead.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“That’s why?—”
He stops. His head turns toward the eastern wall.
I hear it a heartbeat later. Heavy footsteps. The scrape of armored bulk against stone.
Executor.
The wall explodes inward.
Stone shrapnel tearsthrough the air. I throw myself sideways, rolling behind the altar as debris rains down around me. The impact drives breath from my lungs, sends pain lancing through my shoulder where a chunk of masonry clips me.
The Executor doesn’t pause.
It crashes through the rubble pile that used to be a wall, massive and armored and moving with purpose that has nothing to do with random violence. Its obsidian eyes scan the chamber once, twice?—
And lock onto the informant.
They knew. The gods knew he was talking to us.
The man tries to run. Makes it three steps before the Executor’s talons close around his torso.
The scream that follows is the worst sound I’ve ever heard.
Not quick. Not merciful. The creature tears him apart piece by piece, methodical and patient, like it’s making a point. Like it’s sending a message written in viscera and agony.
I can’t look away.
The informant’s mouth opens and closes, words trying to form around the blood filling his throat. His eyes find mine across the chamber. Desperate. Terrified. Pleading for an ending I can’t give him.
My magic stirs, reaching toward him instinctively. Wanting to anchor the death. Wanting to make it stop.
Too far. Too weak. I can’t?—
Kaster hits the Executor like a force of nature.
I’ve seenhim fight before. In the ravine. On the mountain pass. Calculated violence designed to end threats as quickly as possible.
This is fury made flesh.
