Page 182 of Sokâr

Their blades rose together, and the enemy line began to break.

Kailorien was about to give another command when his heart lurched in his chest, the sensation familiar now but no less disturbing. He kept fighting, kept the lines of Reskala moving along with the survivors shielded within.

Kail…Kailorien…

A whisper through the Bond.

The sound struck through the chaos like freezing water over fire.

Kailorien stiffened.

Impossible.

He could only hear her like this if she was close.

His gaze snapped toward the smoke-choked streets beyond the temple wards.

If Auryn had somehow found her way into this inferno…

“Move!” he ordered. “The temple is close! Advance!”

The Reskala surged forward through the ruined street, driving the last pockets of Solutus away from the temple square. The great doors of the sanctuary hung crooked on shattered hinges, but the High Priests had already cast protective wards around the structure. Dwindling Polis light crawled over the cracked stone walls, humming as the Priests ushered the survivors and Reskala inside.

Crafters staggered through the threshold clutching bleeding apprentices. Others carried the wounded between them, their faces streaked with ash and tears. The Reskala formed a perimeter as the last of the civilians were funneled into the sanctuary.

With one last blast of magefire, the Solutus finally signaled a retreat.

“They’ll be back,” Zarrek warned.

Kailorien stepped through the temple gate and turned toward the square.

“Secure the structure,” he told Thrassus. “Double the wards. Barricade all entrances.”

Thrassus nodded and issued commands in swift, clipped signs. Kailorien watched him — the way his Second glared at Zarrek. The stare was too long. Too still. Recognition burned there, and something darker.

Hatred.

Zarrek noticed it, too. He gave Thrassus a calm, measured look.

“If you spent less time staring and more time casting,” Zarrek said, wiping blood from the edge of his axe, “you might have done a better job protecting your Resh’Agar’s back.”

The words landed like stones in still water.

Several nearby Reskala froze.

Thrassus did not.

He stepped forward instead, the gold runes across his face flaring brighter as his magic stirred.

His signs were sharp. Precise.

‘Traitors cannot speak down to Doctrine.’

The words were silent, but the fury behind them needed no voice to burst into flames between the two warriors. Thrassus’s golden eyes locked onto Zarrek.

‘You are the Bloodletter.’

The name moved through the gathered Reskala like a coiled serpent. Recognition spread from one soldier to the next.