The room hadn't truly relaxed.
Eclipse could feel it. The cultists might've stepped back, but they hadn't stepped away. The girl might've returned his mask, but the way she watched him now—chin tilted, gaze half-lidded and unblinking—reminded him of how Silva used to watch sparrows before her blade split them.
Derrilium, meanwhile, had already made himself comfortable by the ruined stone well in the center of the chamber. He kicked one leg over the other, pulled a rusted flask from his coat, and took a long swig as if they weren't surrounded by rubble and suspicion.
"So," the girl began, her voice high and sweet again, but sharp underneath. "What exactly is your job for us, Mister Warbringer?"
Eclipse met her eyes through the mask.
He hadn't planned that far.
He had expected a meeting with the Alchemist. A tense negotiation. Maybe a trap. Not a child Revered One who could paralyze him with a glance. Not Derrilium, of all people, vouching for him with a war crime.
