After two nights Cassiathon was crouched next, to Morgan Morningstar on a ridge swept by wind gazing down at a pass. Beneath them the terrain was illuminated by the green light of a broken dying moon.
"The scouts aren't fiends " Morgan murmured, his tone a whisper. He passed Cassiathon a rectangular gadget featuring a monochrome display. It revealed heat patterns. "Not pure ones. They're Corrupted.. Other mortals affected by the rift-energies transformed into ideal spies. They think like survivors but relay information, like dogs. Understand?"
Cassiathon looked through the apparatus. Three shadows darted with a skittish agility among the debris of an ancient convoy beneath. Their thermal readings were off— frigid at the limbs glowing with a violet blaze, at the heart.
"How can we prevent them without...?" He trailed off. Without me losing control.
"You break the connection " Morgan stated, reflecting the Angels teaching but from another perspective. "Though not the tangible one. The mental bond. The connection that allows their handler, a lesser demon such, as a Whisperer to observe through their vision and direct them. Your father instructed you to sever life. I require you to sever a signal."
Cassiathon gazed at him. "In what way?"
"Your ability is to terminate, correct? A definitive conclusion. A psychic connection consists of moving energy and information. Halt it." Morgan indicated the Corrupted. "That one. Concentrate on it. Ignore its form. Search for the slender flow of data streaming, from it heading southeast. Do you notice it?"
Cassiathon narrowed his eyes extending his senses past the tangible. He allowed the ashen instinct of his ability to lead him. Then he noticed it—a almost invisible glimmer, in the atmosphere a steady subtle stream of sinister purpose emanating from the Corrupted like a psychic lifeline.
"Now " Morgan whispered. "A single concentrated spot. Not to harm the host. To cut the connection. Cause the call to end."
Cassiathon drew a calming breath. He pushed aside the beating of his heart the enticing murmur of the violet cores beneath. He envisioned a scalpel. A quiet snap. He stretched out a finger. From it a thread of grey energy so thin it was nearly unseen shot forth.
It failed to impact the Corrupted. Instead it pierced the glowing link.
No blast occurred. Just a quiet confined stop. The foremost Corrupted abruptly faltered, holding its head. It glanced about bewildered its designed mission vanished. The hunting elegance dissolved, revealing a fractured human form. It groaned, then spun and limped off into the shadows released from its controllers command.
"Excellent " Morgan exhaled, a tone of praise present, in his voice. "Now the following two. Hurry, before the Whisperer notices the feed is missing."
Encouraged, Cassiathon performed the motion more. Snip. Snip.
Two additional tethers were cut. The remaining Corrupted collapsed, then scattered in directions their code breaking down to mere survival reflexes.
Morgan tapped on his device. "The scout net, in this area just shut down. The Whisperer will assume it's interference. That should give us some breathing room." He glanced at Cassiathon with newfound admiration. "You've got the knack kid. One hell of a knack."
While navigating the rocky terrain Morgan broke the silence once more his voice relaxed yet meaningful. "Your father is training you to become a surgeon. A methodical sterile finisher. That's important. Essential.. This conflict? It's more, than neat incisions. It's about disorder. It's about understanding when to act like the scalpel and when to unleash a raging blaze that transforms everything around."
Cassiathon paused. "Are you asking me to defy him?"
"I'm asking you to see him " Morgan said, facing him directly. "He represents order. He's the stop at the conclusion of a sentence. Yet your mother gave you the heart that feels for the tale leading up to that stop.. The Abyss, inside you? That's the vibrant narrative itself. You aren't the ending, Cassiathon. You are the sentence. Don't let anyone persuade you to be the punctuation."
The words struck a chord disrupting the delicate equilibrium he sought to uphold. He was spared from responding by a icy quiver in the very weave of the night—a tremor of celestial wrath they both sensed in their bones.
Something was wrong at the mountain.
"Move!" Morgan. They forsook stealth for haste dashing back toward home as the sky behind them started to bleed a recognizable dreadful violet. The Queens reaction to losing her scouts was far, from discreet.
It was a statement.