That’s when the Runewrights move, and Jax follows.
They don’t rush. They don’t need to. They step out of shadow and into proximity.
It hits Jax instantly. The smell of sweat and fear. The sound of ragged, panicked breathing.And it feels like home to her.Maybe that should horrify her more than it does.
She channels more magic, drawing it to her fingers, and she uses the darkness to slip behind ignorant men who think their sword will do anything to stop her. Her fingers press briefly against exposed skin—neck, wrist, jaw—just enough contact for the rune to be drawn and take hold.
They don’t even get enough time to scream before their knees hit the ground.
Jax draws a quick, precise symbol across a man’s throat, the mark flaring faintly before it sinks beneath the surface. The man doesn’t even have time to react. His body locks, seizes, and then collapses inward on itself like something hollowed out from the inside.
Jax exhales slowly.
There is something deeply satisfying about watching a plan work. Not the death.The clarity.No politics. No prophecy. No manipulation. Just instinct and consequence.
She doesn’t wait for instruction. When another soldier breaks from formation and charges blindly toward the nearest doorway, she steps forward to meet him. Her blade finds the gap beneath his ribs with practiced ease, sliding in and out before he fully understands what has happened. His weight hits her shoulder as he falls, and she lets him drop without ceremony, already moving to the next threat.
There is something about the raw precision and brutality of a blade, of watching life fade from a person’s eyes, that she loves. Yes, Runewright magic is efficient for stealth. But sometimes the world needs to be reminded of the power that lives in the bare, brutal hands of a woman tired of being used.
Around her, the Venomshades continue their work. A blade passes through flesh, leaving behind more than just a wound. Adart embeds itself in a throat, the alchemical compound within it working faster than any poison should. Men fall without understanding why, their bodies betraying them before their minds can catch up.
For a moment—just a moment—it feels controlled. Like they have this. Like Teddy was right.
Jax shifts position, stepping back into shadow as another wave of soldiers pushes forward, drawn by the disturbance. She can feel the shape of the fight settling into a predictable rhythm. Movement. Contact. Kill. Withdraw. Again.
And then… something changes.
It is subtle at first.
Not sound.
Not movement.
Scent.
Jax stills.
Her nose wrinkles slightly as a sharp aroma threads through the air, cutting cleanly through the layered smells of blood and dust and alchemical residue.
Sulfur.
Her grip tightens on her blade.
The air warms.
Not enough to notice if she wasn’t already paying attention. Not enough to alarm the others who are still focused on the immediate fight unfolding in front of them.
But she feels it—a shift. A pressure building in the space above them, like the world itself has drawn in a breath and is holding it.
Jax lifts her gaze toward the sky.
She doesn’t see anything.
Not yet.
But every instinct in her body sharpens, primal and violent instincts rising to the surface in warning.
This is wrong.
