The Price of Mercy

The Inquisitor's blades caught the forcefield's jaundiced glare, edges serrated and glazed with a viscous, iridescent film.

Kael did not recognized the poison—*Borespite, distilled from the bile of Blightborne Ravager, potent enough to liquefy organs in seconds.

Behind the warrior, the city gates towered like the jaws of some mechanized beast, their rusted bars flecked with old blood and older grudges.

Lira sagged against Kael's side, her breath a wet rasp.

The Blight's corruption had spread like ink in water, violet lines clawing up her neck and etching fractured patterns beneath her eyes. Her fingers dug into his arm, trembling.

"Should've… robbed nicer people…"

The Inquisitor spun his twin blades in lazy arcs, their hum slicing through the Blightwind's low moan.

His armor—pristine white alloy scored with burn marks—creaked as he shifted his weight.

"Surrender the thief. The higher-ups might let you die quick."