The walls sealed with a deafening, mechanical clack-hiss. Heavy void-iron shutters slammed over the exits, trapping us like sardines in an expensive, soundproof death-tin.
A high-frequency hum filled the air—a physical pressure that drilled straight into my skull, making my ears ring and suffocating the spatial energy around my fingers until it sputtered and died like a snuffed candle.
Biological suppression. My veins turned to liquid nitrogen; my cellular regeneration choked to a crawl, leaving a heavy, sluggish ache in my marrow. I ground my teeth, my chest heaving as pure, boiling rage threatened to pop a blood vessel.
Vance stood up, smugly smoothing his pristine robes as a look of insufferable, victory-lap confidence washed over his ugly face. “Did you truly believe the Grand Arbiters left the core unprotected? This room is lined with void-stone. Your little magical party tricks are officially dead.”
The other Tiara didn't even blink. Her eyes blazed with a cold, terrifying clarity, her jaw set like concrete. Without a single wasted motion, her arm whipped upward with a sharp whistle of wind.
Clack.
A steel throwing needle screamed through the air, propelled by pure, unadulterated hatred straight toward Vance’s smug throat.
CRACK-ZAP.
A transparent forcefield flared to life, catching the needle dead in its tracks and dropping it to the floor with a pathetic metallic clink.
Vance chuckled, his chest swelling with arrogant amusement. “Commendable reflex. But utterly futile. The dampening field will render you completely unconscious in sixty seconds. After that, it's straight to the sub-basement altar for recycling.”
He watched us with clinical detachment. He looked at my tiny, fragile hands. He looked at her unblinking, blood-red glare.
He made the absolute, catastrophic mistake every target I’ve ever hunted makes.
He thought taking away the magic meant taking away the killer.