The Severer didn't arrive with an army.
She arrived alone.
A single figure, cloaked in black and white, walking the broken streets with bare feet that didn't touch the ground. Her eyes glowed with a pale, sickly light, each step leaving behind faint sigil burns in the air that unraveled the threads Arielle had coaxed into motion.
The city hated her. Arielle could feel it. The hum in her chest tightened, almost nauseating, every pulse recoiling as the Severer walked closer.
Selene stiffened the moment they saw her from their rooftop perch. "Kerys. The Conclave's most precise blade. She doesn't destroy. She erases. She'll cut you from the tether, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but an empty shell."
Draven's eyes narrowed, violet light sharpening into thin blades at his fingertips. "She's not here to negotiate. She's here to end this before the Conclave loses the entire city. If she touches you, the tether will recoil so violently the streets will tear apart."
Below, Kerys raised her hand. White-thread sigils blossomed in the air, delicate and perfect, spiraling toward the rooftop like snowflakes. But every flake that landed on the streets didn't just burn away the threads Arielle controlled — it silenced the hum itself.
For the first time since binding the tether, Arielle felt disconnected. Hollow.
Panic clawed at her ribs. "She's… cutting me off already. I can't— I can't feel the city."
Selene grabbed her arm, their stitches flaring silver. "Then we move. Now. She can't sever you if she can't fix your location."
But Draven stepped forward, his violet constructs expanding into a protective lattice that crackled like static. "Running only delays it. Kerys doesn't stop. Ever. The only way you keep the tether is if you learn to shield it — to keep her from cutting the threads before she gets close."
Kerys tilted her head upward. She wasn't smiling, wasn't scowling. Her face was blank as the sigils around her multiplied, spiraling upward toward the tower like a rising tide of white flame.
And beneath Arielle's feet, the city pulsed once — weak, desperate.