Maledicta remained at the assassin's throat.
The blade did not need to press deeper. It was already close enough that the message had been delivered a long time ago. One wrong move or one bad twitch, and his neck would open before he could finish regretting it.
Around him, Zafira's crimson threads held firm.
They crossed his limbs, chest, and shoulders in tight lines that had stopped being restraints and become a sentence. Blood had already started to gather where a few of them bit into flesh. The assassin had understood by now that neither of them was in the mood to play with him much longer.
The sea wind swept across the rooftop, carrying salt, dust, poison, and the faint copper stink of fresh blood.
