It is stretched through a wound in the world.
“Sable,” I force out, and her name does not sound like language.
It sounds like a threat.
I push myself upright, even though the anti-manifestation net still gnaws at the link from a distance. My ribs feel as though they have been split open and packed with burning iron. Her pulse flutters through the bond, erratic and far too faint, but it still exists.
That is enough.
The front door crashes inward before Corin reaches it properly. He bursts through the opening, breathing hard, one hand bleeding around an iron stake, his aura lit from within by terror and rage.
“Alley off the tannery,” he says. “Marked stones. Barrier flare. Shadow portal dragged her through.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know enough,” he snaps, crossing the room with blood dripping from his palm. “It cut you off. It threw me back. She kept counting her breath while it pulled her in.”
The image lands with surgical cruelty.
She was afraid, and she disciplined it.
She was taken, and she fought for rhythm.
Maltherion has made an error.
I turn toward the front of the house.
Corin grabs my arm. “Where?”
“Through.”
“Through what?”
“The door.”
I do not open it.
I tear through it.
Wood, iron latch, threshold seal, and air rupture outward as I manifest fully, no longer calibrating for human structures or neighborhood concealment. Flame takes shape around me, not as ornament but as consequence. The ward lattice roars in answer, bending around my authority rather than resisting it.
Behind me, Corin curses. “Subtle as a cathedral falling down.”
“Stay back.”
“No.”
I do not slow.
We reach the alley in less time than mortal streets should allow. The tannery walls loom narrow and damp, the air fouled by old leather, mildew, and the cold residue of severance magic. The anti-manifestation sigils still smoke under the cobblestones, though several have cracked from the force I drove against them when she was taken.
Corin stops at the alley mouth, jaw clenched. “There.”
I see the rupture immediately.
It hangs where the shadow rip closed, invisible to most eyes but not to mine. The veil remains weakened, its edges stained with Maltherion’s signature and Sable’s panic held ruthlessly under control. Her pulse flickers through it, distant and uneven.
I place both hands into the air.
