The frantic thud of Niravi’s small fists against the inner side of the grand hall doors, punctuated by muffled pleas, echoed through the iron grating. Tiraz closed his eyes for a solitary breath and let out a dry, measured sigh. “I’m done playing the decoy,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the screams and the tectonic tread of the siege titan. His hand, slender and pale, moved with deliberate slowness, sliding the heavy brass suppression ring from his finger. It hit the polished stone floor with a crack that vibrated through the very foundations of the Gilded Citadel. Not a dull clatter, but a sharp ring, as if the alloy itself had compressed decades of suppressed lethal force. A crimson tremor erupted from the band, rattling the flagstones. The reinforced bronze barriers buckled inward with a violent screech. Twisted metal groaned, rivets popped like overripe fruit, and the massive barrier imploded in a shower of sparks and splintered bronze, blowing outwards into the main corridor. The concussive pressure flattened tapestries and cracked the outer masonry. Zandir, who had lingered near the threshold while ordering the sealing runes locked, took the full blast. The explosion lifted him clear off his feet, sending him sprawling backwards in a graceless heap, his crown askew, a shriek of undignified terror dying in his throat. Through the gaping maw where the doors once stood, Tiraz stepped into the grand hall. His frail frame, long dismissed as mere fodder, filled the entryway with absolute, steady balance. The ambient temperature plunged, snuffing the braziers along the colonnade. His gentle smile, however, remained fixed, utterly serene amidst the pandemonium. The towering construct of jagged, translucent prisms paused its advance. Its multifaceted eyes, usually glowing with predatory hunger, seemed to dim, sensing an entirely new, utterly overwhelming presence. Inside the hall, the few remaining elite offensive combatants, those who hadn’t been trampled or impaled, scattered like chaff. Their flashy offensive techniques had failed against the chitinous swarms of the Glass-Rift. They stumbled over fallen comrades, their faces pale with a terror that dwarfed their earlier arrogance. One noble scion, his pristine tunic stained with dust and mineral ichor, caught sight of Tiraz standing in the demolished doorway. “What are you doing, trash? Run! You’re just a… a decoy! You’ll only get in the way!” he shrieked, his voice cracking with fear and residual disdain. Tiraz didn't respond. He simply raised his hand, a gesture so casual, so utterly devoid of effort, it seemed almost lazy. The air around his palm distorted, not with a flashy display of light or a roaring incantation, but with a silent, internal pressure that seemed to fold reality itself. It was the movement of a master, so fluid it bordered on divine. The construct watched with dull, gem-like facets as the space before Tiraz's hand rippled. Then, with a high whistle that split the air, its immense vitreous arm—the limb poised over Niravi’s overturned shelter—simply ceased to exist. It left only a fine mist of silica settling in the draft. The silence that followed was absolute, deafening. The lesser rift-spiders froze, their faceted carapaces locking in place. The elite combatants, who had been screaming moments before, now stared, jaws agape, at the impossible display. Only fine grit drifted over the marble, revealing Niravi and her huddling squad staring outward from beneath the splintered furniture. Outside, Zandir scrambled backward through the pulverized stone, his face drained of color. He stared at the figure standing where his decoy should have been, authority bleeding away. The truncated monster stood motionless, leaking bright quartz dust from its stump. “W-who are you?” Zandir croaked, his voice cracking against the high ceiling. His gaze darted between the ruined archway, the dismembered brute, and the smiling man who commanded the hall. Tiraz turned, his smile still warm, still gentle, but now carrying an edge that promised oblivion. His eyes, once soft and unassuming, held the depth of ancient stars. “Just your humble shadow, my lord.”

The Decoy's Edge