The boy died without a sound, his neck broken, his body caught before it hit the ground.
Before he exhaled his final breath, Stephen Blackheart had already begun dragging the corpse into a maintenance compartment.
He had been holed up in this cable conduit for ten hours, and he estimated he would have to remain there for another three before making his next move—until this reckless fool appeared.
Stillness had always been the key to concealment.
He had another strategy: keep moving constantly, preventing himself from being pinned down.
That had its advantages, but it only worked when one had somewhere to go.
Right now, he had no room to maneuver. He was being hunted, and if he wanted to complete his mission, he had to survive.
This boy had given him an opportunity.
He was probably only fifteen, but his soul had already fallen into the darkest depths. Stephen Blackheart could tell from the horns growing from his forehead that he had been thoroughly corrupted by dark powers.
That corruption might have come from his parents. Usually, babies born into cultist families were baptized by evil sorcerers, receiving not blessings, but warped curses from wicked gods.
Babies raised in such an environment would eventually become either exceptionally cruel Butchers or schemers.
So Stephen Blackheart had not hesitated when he struck, because he knew he had eliminated a future murderer.
The dead boy wore a hooded dark-red acolyte robe, marking him as a low-ranking cultist. The uniform fit the High Inquisitor reasonably well, since such robes were usually made a size too large so their wearers could continue using them over the coming years.
He slipped it on deftly, feeling a wave of revulsion pass over his scalp while noting with detached interest that the cloth still retained the warmth