Mcmolly

Amygdala Circuit

Two days had passed in what felt like moments. Besca had taken Quinn back to the Aerie, and on the ride up everything had just blurred. They’d taken her to medical straight away, run more than a dozen tests on her, taken blood and saliva and more blood. There seemed to be a general surprise that, aside from some bumps and bruises, she was entirely okay. Exhausted, and in need of food and rest, but her system was clean and there wasn’t a single new growth on her body.

Nonetheless, they kept her in medical at Follen’s request. He saw to her examinations personally, monitored her. He seemed pleased, and told her again and again how happy he was that she was okay. How strong she was. How brave. He was very proud of her—everyone was, he said.

Besca confirmed as much. She came in whenever Follen wasn’t around, and stayed with her for hours until someone dragged her away to handle some urgent matter or another. But she always came right back. They ate their meals together, and in between her assuring Quinn over and over again that Dahlia was okay, just resting, she told her what else was going on.

The singularity openings were a mystery, still. The best guesses were that the swordsman had, somehow, redirected the openings to the dueling field. They hadn’t been particularly far, all things considered, and had only managed to squeeze in three Modir.

They didn’t talk about how it had spoken to her. They tried. Besca didn’t know what to say.

Instead they talked about the duel. Helburke was refusing to acknowledge the loss, and demanded not only that they be allowed a rematch, but that they be compensated for the loss of Blotklau. To hear them tell it, Quinn had ensured its destruction by how severely she’d disabled it, rendering Roaki unable to fight back against the Modir. They couldn’t have it both ways, though; either Blotklau was too damaged to continue the duel, or she wasn’t. In the end, Casoban agreed to void the results, but only agreed to a rematch on the condition that there be no bans, and Runa be allowed to champion them again.

Helburke accepted the voided results, and withdrew their claim to the disputed area.

So, in the most technical sense, Quinn hadn’t won the duel, but the only thing that truly changed was her record. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she had pushed Blotklau into the dirt, and, more importantly, had refused to finish the kill.

Opinions were…mixed, she’d said.

Helburke’s thoughts were known. Casoban was decidedly unhappy with the fact that they’d lost two pilots for none, but the fact that they’d come out with the land secured meant that, really, they’d gotten what they wanted. The pact between them and Runa remained, but Besca didn’t sound certain for how long.

Eusero was in a fit, almost worse than Helburke. She said that wasn’t surprising—they’d been depending on Runa’s loss to close their deal with Casoban. Not only had Quinn spoiled that, but she’d done so by sparing a pilot from their biggest rival on Illun.

To hear it told, there were a great many news stations in Eusero suggesting that RISC was working with Helburke, and that they’d fielded Quinn specifically so that Dragon wouldn’t sweep the duel. They didn’t mention that Dahlia had been banned. They just asserted that Runa injecting themselves into the conflict with a brand new pilot was inappropriate at best, and conspiratorial at worst. Some even stated that “Quinnlash” being a Helburkan name was hard evidence of the collusion.

Apparently people were eating it up.

Runa was split. There were people who supported her choice, certainly, with consideration borne from a national history of nonviolence—or rather, the inability. Others weren’t happen to see a Helburkan spared. Many Runans still considered the lack of aid during Westwel’s fall a betrayal of the Illun Accord, and would take every opportunity to get back at those who had stood idly by. However, hearing Eusero was not pleased did sway some to her side.

Regardless, over the course of a few hours, Quinn had become a very popular topic across the world. RISC had become inundated with interview requests, most of which the Board had approved until Besca told them point blank that Quinn was hospitalized and could not attend. That had stalled them for a time, but she made it clear they couldn’t put it off forever.

Another matter had come up, regarding Hovvi. Or rather, regarding Quinn's life there, before...what had happened. Quinn had made a realization in Casoban, about something her parents had done. About the water. It had taken some time for her to put it into words, but eventually she got there.

It had been modium.

They'd been feeding her diluted modium, almost every day, for as long as she could remember. She was certain now, the smell, the taste, it was unmistakable to her.

Besca had gone silent, excused herself. It was hours before she came back, and she did so with a million assurances that what had been done to Quinn back home was wrong. A million more than she had done nothing wrong. That she didn't deserve it.

And one very stern, very serious assurance that it would never happen to her again.

There was more to say—more they’d tried to say—but before long Follen gave the all clear, and Quinn was released from medical. Dahia was still recovering. Her wounds were well-healed, but vidently she’d contracted a mild case of modium poisoning from her stunt on the field, and some bone growths on one hand had taken her two bottom fingers, and three ribs which. They had grown biomatch bones for the ribs, which set nicely, and were fitting her for cybernetic replacements for the fingers.

She had apparently tried four times to sneak out to see Quinn, but was stopped and now there was someone stationed to watch her door.

Upon her release, Quinn made a B-line straight for Dahlia’s room. At her hesitant request, Besca had come along.

Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

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Amygdala Circuit

Don't let anyone else die because of me.

Dahlia felt like she might be sick, had she not already emptied her stomach in Dragon’s cockpit. For the briefest instant, every ounce of guilt that Quinn harbored washed through her, and it made her soul heavy, made her into an anchor with the entire, crushing depths of the ocean pushing down above her.

“You didn’t…” she started, only for her voice to peter out. What could she say? What assurance could she give that she hadn’t already? Or that wouldn’t be a lie? She wouldn’t lie to Quinn, not ever. She’d promised.

Quinn wasn’t a killer. That was the truth. The only thing Dahlia could do was prove it.

She let Quinn go, gently. “Stay here,” she said, and then darted for Dragon’s body as if every bruise and sprain and cracked bone had been forgotten.

“Stay where?” Besca asked over the comms. “Where is she staying? Where are you going? Dahlia?”

“Probably fifteen minutes ‘til the head’s too mulched to get into. Convoy won’t be fast enough, you said so.”

“Because there’s not point. Deelie—Quinn, did she—Deelie! Listen to me. She’s gone, it’s too late. There’s a lake of ichor around her and that’s not including what might have leaked into the cockpit!”

“Don’t know that.”

“I know it’s not worth you!” Besca shouted. “Neither of you! Deelie, get back there and wait with Quinn! Dahlia!”

She didn’t get an answer. From where she sat, Quinn would be able to see Dahlia’s form half-limping, half-jogging towards the hill Blotklau was crushed against. She had a small bag slung over her shoulder.

“God— Someone, hey—ETA? Extraction, ETA? No, I don’t care if the path is burnt up, you have four-wheel-drive for a reason! Pick up the bloody pace! Quinn, honey, Quinn—can you hear me? Don’t—don’t let her go. Don’t—someone get me eyes out there! Please!”

Besca’s voice grew distant, like she’d stepped away. Quinn could hear her yelling, giving orders, scrambling around inside the pavilion alongside a dozen other people desperately trying to figure out what their pilot was doing.

In minutes Dahlia had scaled the hill. She poised herself behind Blotklau’s head, and then leapt out of Quinn’s view. There was a hard thumping sound over the comms, a grunt, then—

“I’m on. Damage was mainly to the front of the head. Back skull has been cracked open. It’s a mess. I don’t see—ah, there.” Bootsteps on flesh and metal as Dahlia traversed the giant’s neck. “I can see the access port—it’s been impacted, I’ve gotta…”

Another sound crept into the comms from Dahlia’s end. It was foggy at first, so quiet it might have just been the elevated wind, but as she kept going it grew louder and clearer.

Screaming.

“…It’s Tormont—hey! Hey! I can’t…I’ve gotta squeeze in. God, the smell…so much ichor…”

Quinn listened as Dahlia pushed through metal and matter, and as she passed into a cavernous space, the screaming pitched. It wasn’t merely pain or fury, but an amalgamate whorl of rage, and terror, twisting in a boiling sea of agony.

“Oh god…”

Gradually, words began to bubble to the surface, never halting the screaming, only caught in its riptide current. They were brief and bitter. “No!” “Fuck!” “Get off!”

Eventually Dahlia spoke again, though it sounded like she was fighting through an urge to gag. “She’s alive, she’s…the seat’s been wrecked, it’s got her pinned to the floor. There’s ichor everywhere, the whole leg’s submerged. I can…I can see growths. God.”

More steps, more screaming, and then splashing. Dahlia must have stepped into the pool with Roaki.

“Wh-who the f-fuck?” Roaki choked, voice quivering. Whether it was from the cold or the pain was impossible to tell. “Y-y-you’re…the…”

“Stop thrashing, I…” A loud grunt, she was pushing something—or trying. Roaki shrieked. “I can’t move the seat. I can’t…”

“Who the f-f-fuck are you ta-talking to?”

“Her leg’s all sliced up. The ichor’s in. The growths…they’re bone-deep, and rising. They’re gonna spread. I’m seeing some above the hip, and…shit. Besca! Is medical with extraction?

A scrambling sound as Besca returned. “What? Yeah!”

“They’re gonna have to cut.”

“What?”

“And I’m gonna have to remove the foot first if I want to get her out. They can get the rest on the way.”

“What?!” Roaki screamed. “No! N-no! You can’t! You can’t take it! I-I’ll fucking k-kill you, you hear me? I’ll f-fucking—”

“It’s your leg or your life. I’m getting you out—you can live if you want.” Dahlia set down something heavy, zipped it open. A few moments later there was a sound like a torch igniting. “Here, bite down on this.”

“Don’t! Don’t cut me! You can’t!”

“Bite down!”

_{“Please…”}

There were a few, quiet moments. Panicked breathing. The burning of some horrible tool. Dahlia took three deep breaths, shaky, like she was on the verge of fainting.

“I’m gonna mute myself for this.”

Then the comms went silent. Whether it was the wind carrying it to her ears, or just her own mind filling in the gaps, Quinn might have sworn she could hear screaming from the skull of that distant Savior. But it was quickly overpowered by the rumbling of tires on fire-packed earth, and the sight of a half-dozen vehicles rolling up to her. A man stepped out, saw her, and waved towards Blotklau. Three of the vehicles sped off that way, the rest stayed behind.

The man climbed up to her, pristine white coat smudged with ash and dirt just from a few moments in the air. He knelt down beside her, out of the glare of the sun, and she saw its light reflected off his glasses.

“It’s alright, Quinn, darling,” Follen said. “It’s all over. Lets get you home.”

Amygdala Circuit

Quinn wasn’t on the dirt for long. Dahlia had her up almost immediately, holding her steady and stifling every effort she made to push forward. Blotklau lay in a steadily growing puddle of ichor, with three of its limbs blown or torn free, and the third a shattered, awkwardly-bent wreck. It wasn’t stopping, either, it just kept bleeding, and bleeding. Soon enough it would fill the little basin around it to the brim, and spill out into the hills and valleys around it.

“Blotklau is—it doesn't—Roaki is still in there!”

Dahlia was silent, looking piteously out at the Savior, but her focus shifted more intently to Quinn. It took Besca a long time to respond.

“Quinn, I’m sorry I—I don’t know what to tell you. It’s Helburke’s Savior, she’ll have to wait for them to come extract her.”

“The skull’s been breached,” Dahlia said. Her voice was quiet, analytical. “I can see it from here. The body’s beginning to dissolve, the brain must have been damaged too badly. It’s mulched.”

There was another long silence.

“Besca?”

“They’re leaving.” Besca said, solemn but sturdy. “They said there’s nothing to recover.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…god. It means it’s over. There’s nothing we can do. If it’s mulched, then the dissolution’s gonna make extraction too dangerous, and that’s if the cockpit isn’t already flooded with ichor.” She sighed, long, tired. “Quinn, you…you did good. You did everything you could have. I’m sorry.”

Amygdala Circuit

Dahlia’s mind was a fog. She was nicked and scraped and bruised, and could feel that some things inside of her were either cracked or not quite where they were supposed to be. Her thoughts were a jumble, messy, like some had been left behind in Dragon and now the holes were slowly refilling. But one thing that was still crystal clear to her was that Quinn was alive. And upset.

She felt the shift from tears of joy to tears fraught with panic and fear. And…guilt? Yes, bizarrely, she did sound distinctly guilty. Dahlia winced as Quinn’s hold on her tightened to a death grip, listened as she babbled nonsensically about how this had all been her fault, how she’d been hunted—hunted?—and that she’d led them here—no, there. Where? She mentioned Safie, and something twisted in Dahlia’s heart, but she pushed it aside for now.

“Q-Quinn,” she said, sniffling, wrangling the steadiness back into her voice. Right, she was the big sister, it was her job to keep herself together. She held Quinn up when she went limp, holding her out enough to look straight at her. “Quinn, you didn’t—no, no don’t be sorry. Quinn you just saved my life. You did. You didn’t do anything wrong. You saved me, you’re my hero.”

She pulled her in again, hugged her tight and tried to get her back up onto her feet. “I’m so happy you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay? You did it, I’m so proud of you.”

A crackling in their ears, the ping of someone joining the comms channel.

“Girls! Talk to me, hey—I’ve got vitals but no visual, someone get a bloody drone in the air now!—one of you say something!”

“Besca, it’s me, we’re okay. The Modir are gone.”

There was a shaking quiet on the other end before Besca mustered up a reply. “God—we saw Dragon go down, I…oh god. You’re okay, good. Good, just sit tight, convoy is headed back out your way. Ten minutes.”

“Sure thing.” Dahlia took Quinn by the shoulders, guided her away from the pooling ichor slowly spreading beneath Dragon. The smell made her dizzy, reminded her too much of real blood. They hadn’t touched it, thankfully, but when there was this much, they’d both need a battery of tests when they got back to the Aerie.

God, they were going back to the Aerie. She almost couldn’t believe it. They were going home, and they were both okay, and she hadn’t…done anything rash.

“Here, sit,” she said, finding a high, sloping rock to lean against. “You heard her, they’ll be here soon. Just sit here, hold my hand. We did it, Quinn. We really did it.”

Amygdala Circuit

It was so quiet. How could a place like this be so quiet? Even the crackling hills seemed muted in Quinn’s ears. The shroud tugged at her, worried—Not safe it muttered, but it wasn’t the same certainty as before. It wasn’t a warning, it was just…afraid. It was very, very afraid. And as Quinn continued to run, past the fires and rubble and the ichor, that voice sank down as well. The pain was fading, the panic, less so.

Dragon lay like a dead mountain. A waterfall of black blood poured from its half-gone face, spilling down its throat and pooling on the earth, staining it deeper than rain ever could.

As she drew closer, almost to the edge of that umbral lake, there was static in her ear.

“Quinn!”

Dahlia.

She was okay.

“Quinn! You’re—ohmygod—you’re alright! You—stop! Stay there, don’t come any closer to the ichor. I’m out, I’m on the—hold on!”

Moments later, Dahlia emerged into view, clambering over the Savior’s chest. She spotted Quinn, shrieked something unintelligible, and then hurried down. She was limping and as she drew closer there were clear bruises on her face, cuts from where the vents in her suit had snapped and broken. But she was alive, and so was Quinn.

Dahlia hit her like a missile, arms wrapping around her so tight and so fast it took them to their knees. She shrieked again, and this time it was clear that she was saying Quinn’s name, broken by thin air and heavy sobs.

Amygdala Circuit

Dragon was wild, possessed of every bit of bestial fury Quinn had seen in Roaki. Her long fingers swiped at the swordsman, and when she dipped or ducked his swings, her jaw would unhinge like a snake devouring an egg, and a beam of light would blast forth. But he was nimble, fast, he seemed to know what she would do the same instant she did, and every shot sailed past him.

Dahlia could feel herself speeding towards the threshold. The Circuit always seemed so eager to meet her, to speak, to take. The two ends were hands on her head, pressing, squeezing to come together, pressure ready to crush her skull and finally make itself whole again.

But she never slowed down.

The Modir was good, incredibly so. But then, it had crossed swords with Ghaust and won, and when she had dropped down into Hovvi, it had fled before she ever laid eyes on it. Skilled, smart, fast. She couldn’t outpace him, and she certainly couldn’t take a hit from that blade.

Her mind raced, as if employing the dead pulses of her Savior’s brain to work in tandem with her own. She thought quickly, as was the way when you only had minutes in the cockpit.

Not minutes now. Not even moments.

She passed the threshold. The hands began to squeeze. Dahlia grit her teeth as the light burned in her core, radiated from her like sunlight through blinds. It poured from her eyes, from her chest, it made her horns glow molten. The swordsman must have known—of course he did. He whirled his blade and struck for her heart, perhaps expecting her to duck it and put herself out of position to unleash another attack.

Instead, she let it run through her shoulder. The pain was blinding, the pressure on her temples was so strong she thought her ears might be bleeding. But she grabbed the blade near the hilt, and on the guard, and she held. Her mouth opened, a bouquet of flaming teeth and a maw as bright as the sun.

The swordsman’s grip loosened, his sword vanished into the air. His hands took hold of Dragon by the throat and he wrenched her to the ground, face-down. It took every effort in the world not to let the blast go, to let it turn her and him and everything within a mile into ash and void.

Quinn.

I won’t lose Quinn.

Dahlia swallowed fire for her sister.

It was pain she’d only ever felt a few times, and as it traveled down her throat she knew it would push her out of consciousness. So with a final, furious scream, she pulled herself free of the chair, and Dragon went limp.

The swordsman saw it, must have known she’d disconnected. He yanked her up from the ground and then threw her down again on her back. Dahlia slammed against the cockpit walls, crying out, tumbling against the seat and then down onto the floor. He dug his fingers into her mouth and ripped the Savior’s lower jaw clean off. Then, reeling back his fist, he made to punch clean through the skull.

That was when Quinn’s blast hit him. It exploded against his cloak, sending modium and ichor flying. When the smoke cleared there was a crater in his shoulder, and his arm hung by black threads.

He turned to her, red eyes furious—and when she looked back she saw only her own reflection.

Before Quinn could fire again, the swordsman was gone. Vanished into the void. Escaped, again.

The battlefield fell silent, for the battle was over.

Amygdala Circuit

From a Modir, even anguish sounded like death. Ablaze took Quinn’s pain, took that pitiful shriek and morphed it into the low and rumbling beginnings of a battle cry, and when her breath finally caught up with her fury, the roar it released laid low the very wind. She loosed her cannon with enough force to shatter the air with a CRACK that matched her volume. Above and around her, scores of drones faltered, slamming into one another from the shockwave and falling to the earth in pieces.

The cannon flipped end ‘round end, and with Ablaze not far behind it, it seemed that no matter what the swordsman did, it wouldn’t be able to avoid both of them.

Perhaps it was the pain, or the panic—both still dragged beneath the surface of her mind, both kicking wildly to emerge—but by the time Quinn would have noticed the cannon hurtling towards, and then through, its own reflection in the air, it was too late.

The swordsman swiped its blade up, and cleaved clean through the cannon. Unlike the axes, it did not combust and dissolve, its halves merely vanished, and Quinn could still feel it in the ether beyond, tied to her, ready to be reclaimed.

She could also see, between the two of them, the mirrorlike sheen of a second singularity, and the red eyes behind it.

It shattered out, and two Modir came barreling through, slamming into her. Ablaze’s war cry was snuffed as the air was ripped from her lungs. One of the monsters had spear-tackled her at the gut, and the other ‘round her chest. They brought her crashing to the ground, rolling end over end until they came to a stop and both were atop her.

One had a vicious pair of gauntlets around its forearms, ending in claws sharped and more wicked than either Ablaze or Blotklau’s. It used them to clutch Quinn’s arm, to pin it to the ground and pierce her skin at the wrist and shoulder.

The other bore a mace, which it used to pin her other arm down by the haft. It snarled in Quinn’s face, leaking slaver and ichor onto her. Kick and struggle as she might, against the weight of both monsters she was utterly, helplessly locked.

The swordsman approached, and came to stand with a foot on either side of her chest. Behind him Blotklau still lay motionless, steaming from the wound in her chest but, it seemed, nowhere else. Raising the blade high, the Modir brought it down fast and fierce—

—Into the dirt beside Ablaze’s head.

It knelt down, low. One hand came and clutched her by the face, claws digging into her jaw. It pulled her up enough for their faces to be close, enough for her to see into its deep, crimson eyes. Many moments it held her there. A low, gruff sound pushed smoke through its jagged teeth.

“You.”

A voice. A man’s voice, rough and low and brimming with contempt. Not a whisper, not a feeling at the edge of her consciousness, or a sense bubbling up from within her. That was a voice, real and clear and—it wasn’t in her mind.

“Who is that?” Besca shouted—she could hear it too? But of course she could.

It was in the comms channel.

“Who is that?” Besca repeated. Demanded. “Identify yourself!”

There was no ID, nothing to show, nothing to trace. Just an empty profile hovering beneath her own. The swordsman rumbled again, and Besca was suddenly ejected from the channel. Only Quinn and the stranger remained.

“Do you believe yourself safe, cowering in there?” he asked, though it seemed more as though he were thinking out loud. “Did you think you could hide from me?”

Twisting his hand, he brought the blade’s edge up against Ablaze’s neck. Quinn could feel it digging in, shallow now but for how much longer?

“I found you in Runa. I found you here. Quinnlash. Loughvein. Yes, I know you well.”

The swordsman let go of her face, stood up tall and pulled his sword from the earth. He held it in both hands, blade poised down over her head.

“This time you will not escape death.”

Something thrashed within her, so strong and so desperate it was like she could feel her own, plugged-in body convulse. Ablaze arched, pulled against the other Modir without Quinn’s will, but it was useless. The burning fuller shined in her eyes. The swordsman’s gaze was red doom.

“Get the fuck away from her!”

Something crashed into the ground behind Quinn, so hard and sudden that it blasted the four of them with the earthen gore of the hill it had cratered. The swordsman stepped back, vanishing in the storm of dust as the two Modir lunged away.

Finally free, the unwilling thrashing turned Ablaze onto her stomach before dying away. The cloud of debris settled, and rising up from it was the shape over another Modir. Tall, so devastatingly thin that its flesh seemed painted over its bones. Ribs burst freely from its chest, curled up and in like a calcified cuirass. Its spine was a mountain range of sharp, bulging ridges that carried on long past its back, into a black, spinal tail that ran almost as long as it was tall. Twin horns curved backwards from just above its ruby eyes, over its head and back into tips that curled upwards. It was horrifying, and monstrous, and was in every way a nightmare to behold.

It looked like a Dragon.

Her hands splayed out into long, thin fingers with too many digits. They burned with black light. She brought them up to her face, into her mouth, one hand down and one hand up, and then she pulled. Hard. Hard like she meant to rend her jaw apart, to tear her head in two. Instead the black light flashed, and her fingers pulled through her skin as if phasing right through it. In their wake, she had ripped her weapon into being.

It was her mouth.

A hundred razor teeth gleamed with ivory fire, the inside of her maw was ringed with light and steel and it carried to the outside of her jaw, like armor.

Dragon took a long, deep breath., head tilted towards the sky, jaw clamped shut. The brilliant light gathered in her throat, pooled in her mouth. The armor about her cheeks bulged with barely-contained power. The clawed Modir and the one with the mace charged, screeching fury and lusting for blood.

She lurched forward, and from her mouth shot a beam of pure white light, as thin as her withered limbs. It carved the clawed Modir in half, and carried on past it, where it pierced the distant hills, and then further, slicing the center mountain of the dividing range clean apart.

The Modir and the swordsman paused, then split. Quinn heard Dahlia scream bloody, enraged murder over the comes, and Dragon projected it in a high-pitched and gut-curling roar. She charged for the swordsman, crushing the clawed Modir’s head underfoot.

The Modir with the mace turned like it meant to aid the swordsman, but as if by some unspoken command, redirected its attention to Ablaze. It readied its weapon, raised it high, and charged.

Amygdala Circuit

The answer to both questions was yes.

“Quinn! Just hold on, I’m headed to the lift now, I’m—I’ll let it take me low enough for a good angle and then I’m dropping down! Just keep your distance!”

Strangely, that didn’t seem like it would be too difficult. The swordsman turned its body sideface as Quinn’s shot flew past it, exploding harmlessly on a distance hill. It matched her circling, and as the space grew between them it didn’t swerve to chase her. Instead, it reached down and plucked up one of the axes buried into the ground, not yet returned to the void. It stared at Quinn silently, and clutched the axe’s haft hard.

White flames burst to life on the head, as though activated. Only that couldn’t have been so—Modir never had two weapons. Did it mean to come at her with both? To make good on Roaki’s promise to gut her, to tear her limb from limb?

Evidently not. The flames on the axes grew brighter, spread from the blades down into the hilt, and burned deep. The swordsman’s grip closed harder, and there was a metallic keening sound, brief but sharp, before the blazing axe crumbled into embers. Far away, its twin collapsed into dust. It was nothing at all like how weapons were normally dismissed. What on Illun had it done?

She didn’t get much of a chance to wonder. Strange task done it kept walking, still staring straight at her but not a step towards her. Why? It had obviously come for a fight, and with the camp so far away, she was the only one—

It stopped over Blotklau, and before Quinn could even realize what it was doing, it lifted its sword high and plunged it down into the Savior’s chest. The fuller flared, the ichor that poured out from Blotklau’s heart burned and spewed silvery smoke. The swordsman tilted its head, pulled the blade free, and then repositioned it over the Savior’s face.