The buzzing fly.
The vulture.
The weaker version of Morgana Ravenshade.
His own words echoed in his skull, and each one landed like a slap. He'd said those things in front of his soldiers. In front of his city. He'd built their confidence on a foundation of intelligence reports that had just been rendered worthless.
The speech platform where he'd rallied a hundred thousand people was a crater.
His assessment had been rational. Every piece of intelligence he had supported it. The man had never broken a barrier alone. He'd always relied on the dwarven engines to do the work.
The count's throat worked. He looked at his soldiers. He looked at the open sky above his city. He looked at the dwarven artillery already pivoting to fire at walls that no longer had a shield.
"All units to the walls!" His officers stared at him.
"Move!" Aldren roared. "The barrier is gone, not the walls! Not the gates! Not you! Move!"
They moved.
...
High above the smoke, Quinlan heard laughter.
It came from deep inside his soul realm, rich and warm and utterly delighted. Nyxara's presence bloomed against his back, the phantom weight of her settling against him like a cat finding the warmest spot in the room.
she breathed.
He could feel her grin through the bond.
Her phantom fingers traced his collarbone.
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