Nimeth drew air into her chest as the pressure dropped. The constricting filaments around her ribs slackened. The venom-tipped edge nicked Garran’s throat, pressing out a dark drop of blood. His stare locked on Nimeth, caught between shielding her and the steel against his windpipe. The dark cords stayed looped about her waist like limp wire. Then the cavern roof split with the shriek of shearing iron. Masonry and shale rained downward in dense curtains as the subterranean vault parted down its spine. A blast of frigid air rushed in, carrying with it the metallic tang of ruin and the faint scent of ozone. Through the expanding rent, Nimeth caught a horrifying glimpse of twisted spires, shattered platforms, and entire districts of the floating city, now twisted into grotesque shapes, spiraling downwards like dying leaves. Zynir was not just falling; it was disintegrating, an apocalyptic storm of debris plummeting towards Orazir. Garran’s head snapped upwards, his attention momentarily diverted by the sheer, overwhelming devastation. The dark coils encircling Nimeth hummed, vibrating against her collarbones. Faelis, too, glanced up, her grip on the dagger faltering for a microsecond. That microsecond was all it took. A tribunal inquisitor stumbled from a newly opened fissure, balancing a bronze armature on his single intact forearm. His cauterized sleeve trailed smoke as he leveled the housing at Nimeth. “The architect of this mercy,” he rasped. “You always did pull ruins down upon your head, Nimeth of Zynir.” The apparatus chimed, its core flaring with viridian light as the inquisitor swung the aperture toward Garran. “A mercy to us all, to cut down this nest,” the inquisitor spat. A viridian discharge flashed from the barrel, striking the dark coils about Nimeth. Tannik dropped from a heap of collapsed masonry behind the inquisitor, clearing the breach with his sidearm leveled. He squeezed the trigger without breaking stride. The heavy lead slug drove into the inquisitor's spine beneath the shoulder blade. The viridian beam veered into a pillar of basalt as the man pitched forward. Tannik fired a second round into the officer's neck. The brass housing clattered across the flagstones, silent. “Consider that my resignation,” Tannik said, kicking the fallen weapon into a crevice. Yet the danger remained. Garran had moved. The stray pulse had not snapped the black cords; it had fed them. Garran’s frame broadened, bones cracking as the shadow along his skin swelled. The flagstones splintered. The dark tendrils thickened to the girth of tree trunks, sinking deep into Orazir's bedrock. They snaked upwards, coiling around him, merging with his flesh, transforming him into something monstrous, magnificent. His eyes, now burning orbs of obsidian, seemed to swallow all light. Shadows deepened around him, not just a lack of light, but an active, consuming void. His limbs elongated, his stature growing to an impossible height, dwarfing even the largest stalagmites. The spilled charge had served only as fuel for a vessel with an endless appetite. The plummeting city of Zynir, the crumbling Spire, the very air, everything seemed to be drawn towards him, to be consumed by the nascent god taking shape before them. He let out a low, guttural roar, a sound that resonated deep in Nimeth’s bones, and the air crackled with malevolent energy. He was not just ready to destroy the falling city; he was ready to obliterate everything in his path, to erase the pain, the fear, the world itself. Trapped in the remaining lattice, Nimeth felt the convulsion through the cords: not triumph, but sheer, suffocating panic. The web slackened as Garran leaned toward the rift above. Nimeth shoved the strands aside like hanging silk, slipping free onto the gravel. She stumbled forward, her legs unsteady, but her resolve absolute. The ground shook. Debris rained down. Garran, now a titanic, shadowy figure, was an abyss of destructive power. Yet, she walked towards him, her small form insignificant against the backdrop of an impending apocalypse. She raised her arms, wide open, an offering, a promise. “I am not leaving you, Garran—I am staying forever.”

Architect of Mercy