I stood in the ruin of the camp, Bari's blood cooling on my face, and I could not move.
What is wrong with me? Why did I ever think I could handle this?
My hands were buried in the chest cavity of the Khaazim that killed Bari, silver-white lightning still crackling from the wound, and the demon's black-red blood was mixing with Bari's on my skin.
Behind me, the screaming continued. The researchers. The porters. The Initiates who had been casting small, desperate spells and were now running, falling, dying without the protection of the Adepts.
Dara was still alive. I could hear her Threadwork snapping, her blades of air slicing through the fog. She was forty metres away, two Khaazim between us, and she was not calling for help. She was not calling for me.
Her casting and abilities were at the peak of the Acolyte level, and for her to live this long meant she had other secrets.
