The gas curls through the air, imperceptible unless you’re looking for it.
The unit’s leader falters.
He stumbles.
Just slightly. Not enough for the others to notice. His stride shortens, his breath catching as something unseen begins to work its way through his lungs. He lifts a hand to his throat, frowning as if confused by the sudden resistance.
Then he drops.
It happens fast after that.
Another breath. Another step forward. Another body hitting the ground.
The formation wavers, the clean lines of their advance breaking into uncertainty as the men behind them hesitate, glance down, try to understand what they cannot see. Someone shouts. Someone reaches for a fallen comrade.
“Hold,” Calira commands. “No movement.”
The gas begins to thin, and the next unit of Caelorians move, rushing the street and flooding it with blades and boots and big plans.
“Mist,” Calira growls, signaling out the window to the Venomshades across the street. “Now.”
Venomshades move, catapulting balls into the air that break apart, dispersing into a fine mist.
The soldiers scream, their agony rending the air as the acid of the mist eats at their flesh, the same way it ate at Jax’s Nullveil.
Brutal.
Efficient.
Precise.
They claw at their faces. Fall to their knees. Cry out in agony as the Venomshades alchemy goes to work.
Their bodies jolt and jerk as life is stripped from their bodies.
They lie motionless on Virellin’s streets, limp and flesh-eaten.
Jax grips her blade a little tighter, ready to practice the Runewright symbol she was shown to take the life of another.
She draws in the gift of Runewrights from those around her, holding both magics in her palms, ready to rush the streets.
That’s where she’d rather be—closer to the violence. Closer to something that makes her feel alive.
The mist weakens, settling to the ground like the last drops of rain.
The next unit appears, and this time, they try a different approach. One at a time, soldiers move forward, chests rising and falling too fast to be calm. No, they know exactly what they are—tests.Sacrifices.
They wait. A heartbeat. Two. Then, the next soldier moves forward. They file down the street like men who think they’ve figured it out.
Then, Calira commands, “Runewrights, move! Do not miss. Or you will be left to fight alone.”
The words are brutal, unflinching.
They’re also true.
They will not risk blowing the plan for one inefficient Runewright.
“Move,” Calira says again, before releasing a needle from between her practiced fingers. It finds its mark, embedding into the neck of the man at the back who stumbles once, and then crumples to the ground with a wet crack.
