Ludwig's fingers tightened on Oathcarver's hilt until his knuckles creaked audibly, the black steel trembling faintly with the pressure of his grip. Every fraction of him screamed that this had to be perfect. Not a single misstep. Not a wasted breath. Too slow, and the Wrathful Death would crawl fully into their world, dragging Celine with it into corruption. Too fast, and the rift would linger open, wide enough and long enough that thing to claw its way back in regardless. The plan needed to be perfect.
There was no chance to mess this up.
He inhaled, a useless, reflexive gesture that rattled in a chest with no lungs. Then he moved.
