"I'll cut the damn chorus."
He twisted midair, his blood dominion bursting out again. This time, the blood didn't seek the ground—it soared, spears and tendrils of command-rich essence piercing toward the mute singers.
The first was impaled—silence turned to a gasp as their sewn mouth burst open. The hymn wavered.
The barge shook.
The Choirmistress turned—her eyes behind the veil burned with outrage. She sang a new note.
The sands below inverted. Space folded—Asher found himself on the ground, disoriented, as if gravity had just chosen a new direction.
But Valeris was waiting.
"Command: Sing no more."
Golden lines of truth slashed through the air, wrapping around the Choirmistress's throat—not choking, not wounding, but binding her will.
The hymn faltered.
Asher rose.
Now.
