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“Let me go, Harrow,” Ianthe panted, body struggling to heal itself around the writhing ropes of spine piercing through her. Two hours ago she would have broken them easily.
Now is not two hours ago.
“Harrow, let me go!” she crackled in increasing desperation. “You don’t have the strength anymore to pull away from the star, you’ll die too - “
Harrowhark laughs and it crackles in her throat where she hasn’t quite healed from Ianthe trying to burn the mucous there while it was still in her body. Harrow pushes herself off the wall and limps over towards Ianthe’s writhing, careful to nudge any scraps of blood or fluids away from her feet.
“You don’t know anything about my power, Tridentarius,” she rasped, one last kindness before the kill, “but I know two things. One, that you are a very good liar. And two,” she grins down at Ianthe’s panicked eyes with blood on her teeth, “that I’m a better necromancer.”
Ianthe stops struggling and looks at Harrow. Her face is unreadable.
“Goodbye, Ianthe the First,” says Harrow, and flings her fellow lyctor, her sister on the hand of god, out of the open bulkhead into the malevolent gravity well of the burning star, bones and all.
She screams as she goes, but it fades quickly, and Harrow takes a full minute to rest before walking with only a slight click in her knee to go deal with the engines.