Page 55

I could bring the trees down. Strip the flesh from every man who ever looked my way in challenge.

The call is insidious, intoxicating. And for one breath, I let that possibility settle.

What would it feel like not to stop?

But Ido. I stop because I choose to. Because power must be shaped, not surrendered to. Succumbing to temptation would turn me into the monster the Authority claims me to be.

The others scatter. I allow two to reach three steps.

One raises a whistle to his lips.

“Seviran.”The void wraps tight around his neck like a living garrote. His windpipe caves inward. He crumples, clutching at nothing.

The other rises off the ground, suspended from branches that tremble without wind. I draw out what anchors him, thread by thread. Not killing, extracting. When he falls, he folds wrong.Boneless.

The last man runs—smart enough to see what’s happening, too slow to escape it. I let him think he’ll make it. Let him see the dark coming for him. Give him a moment to understand what walks beside this caravan tonight.

A black tether finds his limbs—four threads, cinching at wrists and ankles. A flick of my wrist and they pull in opposite directions. The bones do not break. They separate. Joint by joint. Something internal tears.

“Tharen var.”The words sink into his chest. The void does the rest.

He screams. The sound barely leaves his lips beforethe night swallows it. Shadows curl into his mouth and fill his lungs. When he drops, there’s nothing left of him but his shape.

The quiet reasserts itself. The world exhales, and the void withdraws, shadows following it, melting back into tree roots and rock hollows. Not banished or spent, but resting,waiting.

I haven’t used my power this way in decades. Not for this. Not to remind the night what it once obeyed. It came clean. As though the blade had never been sheathed.

But the magic didn’tjustobey. Itfed. Each death spilled into me, a pulse of returning strength. Not the same way my shadows returned, but something older,darker.

My hand is still open. A residue like oil clings to my palm. It slides between my fingers and vanishes.

There is no triumph. No satisfaction. Only the return of balance.

The men who died tonight won’t be missed. They kill for profit. For cruelty. For opportunity. And I’ve ended enough men like them to know their faces won’t be mourned.

But still, this is the first time since my return that the world has bled around me.

It won’t be the last.

Behind me, footsteps sound. Quick at first. Then slower, more hesitant. I don’t need to look to know it’s the guard and the caravan leader. They stop at the edge of the clearing and wait, almost as if approaching too directly might summon the magic back into motion.

The caravan leader speaks first. “By all the gods …”

The guard makes a choked sound.

I turn to face them. They both recoil, a single involuntarystep. The guard’s hand goes to the hilt at his hip and stays there. He doesn’t draw though. The leader holds his ground, barely. His mouth opens, then shuts again, his face draining of color.

Their gazes move over the bodies. The blood. The ruptured limbs, shattered bone and erased features. Then to me.

“You kept the caravan from burning tonight.” The words are quiet, shaky.

I say nothing.

His eyes won’t meet mine. They skitter across the clearing. Over the wreckage. Around the edges of what I’ve done. He exhales, and then gives the smallest nod.

“We will clean this before first light. No one will ask questions.”

He turns. The guard hesitates for one heartbeat longer, still staring, then follows him.