"They call themselves pure," I say as the blade slides between ribs and out the other side.
"Freyja!" someone shouts. The word is wet with surprise, not anger.
The archon tilts his head as if studying a stain. He still manages a sermon. "You dare—"
I hook my foot through a root, pull, and the priest goes forward onto his knees. He coughs my name like a benediction.
"Spare me the speech," I tell him. My fingers curl around the haft. Blood paints my palm a bright, obscene red.
"People of the Mire, they will be cleansed," the tall one proclaims behind him. His armor is enamel and light. He smiles like a verdict. "Divine order will be restored."
I kick dirt into his face to shut him up.
"Do you always talk so much?" I ask. The blade whistles when I pull it free. "Or do archons just never learn to shut up before they die?"
The other priests laugh. Their laughter bounces off broken stones and green rot.
"Enough," a voice says from the path. Calm, steady. Dangerous because it pretends not to be. Theodore Serra steps into the clearing like a man who owns the sun and chose to keep it in his pocket for now.
He surveys us in three slow breaths. Then he looks at me. "Freyja, don't make this worse."
"Make what worse?" I answer. "What, stopping you from preaching to corpses? That sound worse to you?"
He takes one step closer. His
