Mammon moved through the folding reality like a stain spreading across parchment. The air around him warped, paper-thin dimensions curling at his edges as he surged toward Zara and the child.
His form flickered between obsidian flesh and origami nightmare, the stolen void-energy from Zara's severed hand pulsing through him like a second heartbeat.
Zara saw him coming.
Her body moved before her mind could process the terror. She shoved the Weaver behind her, the child's small fingers clutching weakly at her jacket. The lattice on her stump flared, reacting to Mammon's proximity—recognizing him. The void-energy inside her, now contained but still vast, thrummed in response.
She had no weapon. No divine power. Just a body, a will, and a debt unpaid.
"You don't get her," Zara snarled.
