Her eyes stare into them, through them, seeing them and yet not seeing them at all, her chin lifting in scorn. Don't beg for mercy now. They can't do it now, just to save their own hides -- not with everything they've done. Don't whimper and call out her name -- especially not her name, when they have no right to it, either of them.

"Too late."

Her hand flashes -- a quick, almost dismissive gesture, and they'll find themselves flying through the air, whipped off the chains with the force of a catapult.

There's a vendor stand just below them; they'll likely plummet to the roof, and if they're unlucky . . . crash right through the wood.