“The bond doesn’t chain me to your side. The magic functions regardless of proximity. If I wanted to establish distance, find my own path, build an existence that doesn’t involve constant violence—” I pause, watching his face for any reaction. “—nothing would stop me.”
Silence holds between us. The tainted terrain offers no distraction, the remaining constructs too distant or too wary to interrupt.
“Why tell me this?” His voice has gone still. Controlled in a way that suggests effort.
“Because I need you to understand. I’m not here because I have to be. I’m not fighting beside you because the alternative is worse. I’m not staying because I lack options.”
“Then why?”
The question lands between us like a blade. Direct. Unflinching.
I don’t soften my answer.
“Because watching you tear those things apart is the most satisfying experience of my entire existence.”
He stares at me.
I let him stare. Let the words settle into the space between us, uncomfortable and raw and entirely true.
“You...” He stops. Regroups. “That’s what keeps you here?”
“Part of it.” I let my hand fall, but I don’t step back. “You make the world safer when you kill. Not theoretically, not philosophically—literally, measurably safer. Every construct you eliminate is one less threat to innocent people. One less weapon the gods can point at targets who can’t defend themselves.”
“I don’t kill for altruism.”
“I know. You kill because you’re a predator and they’re prey. The morality is incidental to you.” I shrug. “It’s not incidental to me. I spent years watching Anchor witches burn themselves out trying to make deaths stick against creatures that should have stayed dead. Watched the world keep getting worse because nothing we did made a difference that lasted.”
“And now?”
“Now I watch you tear apart divine constructs, and I anchor the endings, and they stay ended.” The satisfaction in my voice surprises me with its depth. “That’s not nothing. That’s exactlywhat I was supposed to do with this bloodline, before the cost made it unsustainable.”
His grip closes on my hip. Drags me closer with pressure that’s become familiar—proprietary, unapologetic, certain of its welcome.
“You said part of it.”
“What?”
“You said watching me kill is part of what keeps you here.” His grip tightens fractionally. “What’s the rest?”
I consider the question. Consider the multiple answers I could offer, each true in its own way, none entirely complete.
“I like the way you touch me.”
His eyes darken. The hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface rises closer to visibility.
“And I like the way you move through a fight.” I continue, voice steady despite the heat building between us. “And I like the way you don’t treat me like I’m fragile, even when I was dying. And I like the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
“You’re always paying attention.”
“Yes.” I press closer. Feel the hard length of his body against mine, the barely-contained fire threatening to escape his control. “That’s how I know you look.”
THIRTY
SOREIA
We don’t make it to shelter.
The poisoned ground offers no comfort, but comfort isn’t what either of us needs. He takes me down against the base of a collapsed wall, hands rough and urgent, mouth claiming mine with the same precision he applies to combat.
