Her stance stayed rooted, knife clenched tight in her hand. Dark eyes scanned the blinding chamber for something—anything—that counted as cover.
There was none. The Inner Sanctum offered only light and the man who owned it.
The Lux‑beam snapped from the Bishop’s fingertip in a straight, perfect line.
It hit her right shoulder. Leather vaporised in a burst of steam.
The beam punched through muscle and joint, not to kill, but to gut her ability to fight. Fire raced down her nerves as the socket tore; the joint popped out with a sickening, clean dislocation.
She trembled.
Teeth sank into her own lip to strangle the scream trying to claw its way out.
Blood filled her mouth. Knees shook under the force of the pain, but she refused to fall.
The knife slipped from numb fingers only be
