When she finally kills it—quick twist that snaps neck cleanly—the mercy feels like afterthought rather than kindness.
"There," she says with satisfaction. "Now I understand exactly how much pressure triggers panic versus resignation. Useful information for future applications."
The clinical assessment makes bile rise in my throat. She wasn't torturing animal for pleasure. She was conducting research into psychological manipulation techniques.
Somehow, that's infinitely worse.
I wait until Kaerith takes watch duty before approaching Elira by the dying fire.
She sits cleaning her knife with methodical precision, each stroke removing not just blood but some invisible contamination only she can perceive. The weapon gleams in firelight like captured star.
"We need to talk," I say, settling beside her despite every instinct warning against proximity.
"About?"
"About what's happening to you. To us. About the changes since we discovered Malakor is alive."
Her hands still on the blade. "What changes?"
"The planning that excludes us. The casual cruelty toward helpless animals. The way you speak about suffering like it's irrelevant academic concept." I keep my voice steady despite fear making my chest tight. "You're becoming someone I don't recognize."
"I'm becoming someone capable of surviving what's coming." The correction carries no anger, just patient clarification of obvious truth. "The person you knew was luxury we could afford when threat remained theoretical. Now that we know what we're facing, adaptation is required."
"Adaptation into what?"
"Into whatever form provides tactical advantage against enemies who've already proven their efficiency." She resumes cleaning the knife with renewed focus. "Sentiment didn't save Tuskon and Vicky. Gentleness didn't protect them from systematic murder. Mercy won't prevent additional casualties."
"So you abandon everything that made you worth saving?"
The question hangs between us like challenge neither of us wants to acknowledge. She looks up from her weapon maintenance with eyes that reflect firelight without warmth.
"Worth saving according to whose judgment?" she asks with genuine curiosity. "You speak as if moral purity has inherent value beyond emotional satisfaction. As if being 'good' matters more than being effective."
"It does matter."
"Why?"
The simple question strips away layers of assumption I didn't realize I carried. Why does goodness matter beyond personal satisfaction? Why should mercy take precedence over efficiency? Why preserve gentleness when brutality achieves superior results?
"Because," I finally manage, "without it, we become no different from those we're fighting."
"Exactly." Her smile carries no warmth, only cold satisfaction at my understanding. "We become equally effective. Equally dangerous. Equally capable of protecting what we value through whatever methods prove necessary."
"That's not protection—that's becoming the threat."
"The distinction only matters to those who can afford ideological luxury." She sheathes the knife with decisive motion. "I prefer practical solutions over philosophical comfort."
The conversation ends not with argument but with recognition that we're speaking different languages now. She'smoved beyond moral frameworks I still inhabit, evolved past concerns that continue constraining my thinking.
I'm losing my sister to something that wears her face while speaking in stranger's voice.
Sleep brings no mercy from the day's revelations.
In dreams, Elira stands over bound figures with knife gleaming in light that casts no shadows. Her face carries expression of clinical interest as she makes precise cuts designed to maximize fear without causing immediate death. Research, she explains with patient teacher's voice. Learning optimal methods for extracting information from unwilling subjects.
The bound figures look like Tuskon and Vicky. Like me. Like everyone we've ever tried to protect through bonds we thought made us stronger.
She moves between them with methodical efficiency, documenting responses to various stimuli. When they beg for mercy, she tilts her head with genuine curiosity about why they expect compassion from someone who's evolved past such limitations.
