They had been running from rooftop to rooftop.
From ledge to ledge.
From shadows to air.
One cloaked in divine energy.
The other cloaked in something far more ancient.
Theron had poured everything into that sprint. His [Rank 5] frame—a vessel honed by battle, honed by prayer, honed by sacrifice—moved through the capital like a streak of light. His breath was steady. His steps perfect. His will sharpened to a singular point.
From roof tiles cracked by moonlight, to market walls stained by age, he flew, descending only when the towering gates of the Church appeared.
He had raced through stone, smoke, and sacred territory, not once losing focus.
But it hadn't mattered.
Because when he landed—he was already too late.
Cedric stood waiting.
Not breathless. Not even mildly inconvenienced.
Just waiting.
A quiet presence before the gate, framed by two motionless guards who—despite standing right next to him—hadn't registered his existence.
