They would, because the Master would not stand for her taking the lives of his beloved traitor.
The traitor… yes. She had done well to do for him. Now she could live in the wastes, in her TARDIS, with him. Now she could be free.
But as she mouthed that admission, her foot caught on an upturned hexagonal tile; as she fell, her lavender eyes flamed on the exit out of the Citadel, a small arch with a blue eye atop it. That eye, that arch, like an ancient guardian sitting above her, waiting to smite her for her dreadful sin. No, that wasn’t right. She had done nothing wrong. There was no sin.
She lost her balance.
Footsteps as she landed, and then her hand was jarred far away from the touch of the torque, touching instead the boot-top of a man. Elegant, squarish fingers reaching down…