The Weaver let out a final, confused, and terrified psychic scream as Rhys and Emma attacked. It had escaped its thousand-year prison, but it had flown from a cage of stone and sleep into the waiting jaws of two predators whose wills were harder than any rock.
They stood on the silent, milky-white light-bridge of the Aetherium Weave. They were no longer in the Weaver's world. They were in a neutral space. And here, they were the stronger predators.
Rhys raised his hand. The Twilight Edge blade, his perfect fusion of shadow and light, formed in his palm. Emma stood beside him, her hand glowing with the golden light of her Mind Sovereign power.
"Let's finish this," Rhys said, his voice a cold, hard command.
The Weaver, its chaotic, shadowy form still reforming, tried to fight back. It lashed out with a dozen tentacles of pure, raw emotion. A wave of terror, a spike of rage, a crushing wall of sorrow—it threw the entire spectrum of negative human feeling at them at once.
