The sword cleared the Dark Knight's back, and the village changed again.
No whispers now. No bell. No soft voice working at the edges of anyone's head. Just the sound of black plate shifting as the thing that used to be the Saintess rolled its shoulders and settled its grip.
James felt the difference before anyone moved. The prayer had been soft, something reaching for the inside of the skull. This pressed on the body. The air went thick around his chest, heavy in the lungs, and Maeve's field bowed inward at the edges before the boss had taken a single step.
The circlet on her head burned brighter to compensate.
The black helm turned. Not toward Ronan at the front. Not toward James.
Toward Finn.
Finn was still closest to the steps, axe up, mud on his boots from the run that had taken her head off.
"It's coming to you," James said.
"I see it," Finn said.
The Dark Knight moved.
It was fast in a way nothing wearing that much metal had any right to be.
