"Loud or quiet?" he whispered, expression taut.
"They already know we're here. Loud," I replied, forging the final step from caution to action.
He nodded, lips set in a grim line, and flicked his wrist. A swirl of dust coalesced near the shrine, forming a decoy illusion—a fleeting image of himself sprinting past. The cultists jerked toward it, illusions swirling around them as they raised their arms in alarm, a fractured chant rising in the hush.
I lunged in behind the ruse, blade slicing down in a clean arc at the nearest cultist. The robed figure tried to turn, but I caught him before he could fully phase into illusions. A wet hiss escaped his lips as his form collapsed, half-lost to ephemeral shreds that vanished on the wind.
