Zara didn't look at Lilith or Nishanth. Her entire world had narrowed to the terrified child and the corrupted limb that was the price of her freedom. The void-scars burned with icy fire, Mammon's whispers a seductive counterpoint to the puppet's demand.
Give me the hand, embrace the power within it, and crush this paper abomination. Save the child AND become more.
The temptation was a physical ache, a dark gravity pulling at her soul. But beneath it, beneath the corruption's oily promise, was a bedrock of something harder: resolve. She would not let this child pay for their war. Not like this.
"Tools," Zara repeated, her voice unnervingly calm, detached. "A clean cut. Now." Her eyes, when they finally met the puppet's sockets, held no fear, only a terrifying emptiness.
