Wenrik was waiting for him at the canyon's mouth.
The Cantor had not pursued. He had not needed to. He had simply walked back to the engagement ground and stood, staff at his side, his silver-burned ribs slowly knitting under his robe. The single drop of blood at the corner of his mouth had dried.
Owen walked toward him.
His CE was at maybe three thousand units. His left shoulder was a knot of bruise. The cut above his eye was still bleeding. The desolate channeling had left an ache in his core that felt like it might never fully go away.
He kept walking.
Wenrik watched him approach. His expression was not gloating. It was not even satisfied. It was something quieter — the calm of an artisan considering a finished piece.
"She fought well," Wenrik said.
Owen stopped six meters away.
"Why her?" he said. His voice was even. Steady. He did not recognize it as his own.
