Dame Seraphine found the place where her Swords had died, and for a long moment she did not move at all.
There was nothing to find, which was the thing that undid her composure. A death leaves something behind.
A body, an echo, a last expression caught in the air. Her Swords had left her none of that. She felt the absence where their Sources had been, four foundations she had known across long years simply collapsed, gone so completely that even the grief had nowhere to anchor.
Sir William. Botswana. Richard. Lianna!
The new Sword's protectors, the ones she herself had chosen for this party because they were among the best she could have asked for. Unmade!
The rage came up slowly, which was worse than if it had come fast. It started somewhere deep and built, and by the time it reached her face it had stopped being heat and become something cold and bubbling and absolutely certain.
She turned back toward THE Maw.
