Soreia hasn’t moved.
She’s still against the rock formation, watching me with an expression I can’t read. Not fear—I’d recognize fear. Not horror, though she probably should be horrified by what she witnessed. Her face holds a calm that borders on unnatural, a stillness that suggests she’s processing rather than reacting.
Her gaze finds mine.
Recognition passes between us. Understanding. The quiet acknowledgment that what I did was excessive and necessary in equal measure.
She’s not afraid of me.
The thought should bring relief. Instead, it brings a different kind of tension—the awareness that her acceptance means more than her fear ever could.
I cross the distance between us. Three steps. Four. Each one deliberate, controlled, a reclaiming of the composure I abandoned during the fight.
She watches me approach without flinching.
I stop within arm’s reach.
“You’re bleeding.”
I’m not. Not really. Scratches, minor cuts, nothing that won’t heal within the hour. But she’s tracking my injuries anyway, her gaze moving across my body with that clinical assessment she employs when calculating costs and risks.
“Surface wounds.” My voice comes out rough. Scraped raw by the sounds I must have been making during the fight—sounds I don’t remember making. “Nothing permanent.”
“That’s not—” She stops herself. Takes a breath. “You almost lost yourself.”
“I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“The creature stopped moving. You didn’t.”
“It was still regenerating.”
Her eyes hold mine. Steady. Unblinking. “Was it?”
I don’t answer. We both know the truth. The Executor stopped regenerating minutes before I stopped destroying. The rest was... a different impulse entirely.
“They’re targeting you specifically.” The words emerge before I fully decide to speak them. “Not me. Not the territory. You. The gods want you dead because of what you represent.”
“An Anchor witch.”
“An Anchor witch who can make my kills permanent.” I watch her face for reaction. “They’re not afraid of me alone. They’re afraid of what we become when we work together.”
The word together sits between us like a physical presence.
She doesn’t acknowledge it. Neither do I.
“That changes the plan.” Her tone stays level. Measured. Soreia processing information and calculating responses. “If I’mthe priority target, I become a liability. Drawing attacks. Forcing you to protect me instead of eliminating threats.”
“No.”
The rejection is immediate. Absolute. No room for discussion or negotiation.
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Kaster?—”
“You’re not a liability.” I step closer. Inside what normal people would consider comfortable distance. “You’re what makes this work. Without you, I can win every fight and still lose the war. With you, we end this.”
“We could separate. Draw their focus in two directions. Make them?—”
“No.”
