The Catacombs, at the Disposal Chute,
Two black-robed cultists dragged the lifeless body of Thomas Briar down a narrow, rough-hewn tunnel. The air here was hot and smelled of ash; the Incineration Pit was just ahead.
"Heavy for a kid," one cultist grunted.
"He's dead weight," the other chuckled. "Literally."
They reached the edge of the pit.
"One, two..."
FWIP. THUD.
The cultist holding Thomas's shoulders pitched forward, a jagged shard of black ice protruding from the back of his neck. He fell silently into the pit.
Ivan was already there. He moved like a wraith, silencing the second cultist with a brutal knife strike before he could scream.
Ivan caught Thomas's body before it hit the ground. He checked the pulse—there was none, but the skin had the waxy texture of [False Death], one of his creations.
"You crazy alchemist," Ivan muttered.
He tapped the comms-coin in his pocket. Package secured.
