Amelia watches with cold eyes as Tarent struggles. As he looks up at them with unspoken pleas for mercy. The same ones she knows others have cried out to him when he forced himself on them, when he beat them and fucked them and thought himself better.

Pathetic.

Hawke gets his chance for vengeance, hate, and anger without interruption. Cold echoes out of him and it feels good as the filth at their feet slowly succumbs to the pressure on his chest, the fabric in his throat, the loss of blood from so many wounds.

Then, just as simply as that, he's tossed over the edge and sailing to be judged in his afterlife.

It helps. It helps so much. Knowing he's dead or that they'll break his neck soon and that it'll be the end of it. But there's still work to be done.

The Shadow Mistress reaches out, touching a man so cold her fingers almost burn from the contact with his face. She catches his eyes, and dreams is everything about him difficult to resist. A fire burns in her she wishes she could quench in the chill of him, to press against until they're both nothing but embers and ash.

Later. Their work must be finished, and then she'll take him home for whatever else he'll allow.

"We have to follow them down. Put them out of easy sight. Let's see this done, then we'll go home."