That darkness erupted as a single, towering spear of black light-too wide to be an arrow, too sharp to be a storm-racing for Jared and Sylvia with an animal howl. They saw the beam coming and felt every drop of blood turn cold. A direct hit would not merely wound; it would shatter bones, scatter organs, and leave whatever was left begging for release.

“Ms. Vale-what do we…?” Jared began, voice already cracking beneath the roar of onrushing death.

“I know,” she cut in, eyes fixed ahead. “Together. Now.”

She gave a quick, decisive nod, the way a commander signals retreat or charge when there is no time left for speeches.

“You realize,” Jared said, half-laughing through the terror, “our timing’s getting scary good. I might be starting to enjoy you. If we live through this-I swear you’ll learn exactly how good that can feel.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes so hard the gesture felt like a slap. Even at the cliff edge, he managed to flirt.

She remembered how he’d played the saint earlier, pretending cultivation was all spirit and no flesh. Now with the grave yawning-he suddenly wished for twin cultivation, for pleasure shared before oblivion.