"Where's Merek?"
Atticus fixed his eyes on the Redflame god before him. He was a slender man with shifty eyes. His hair was spiky, his attire brazen.
His battered face showed signs of age, but Atticus got the feel of an old man desperately trying to look younger, and failing splendidly.
To his question, the man scoffed, then smirked, revealing his toothless mouth. Anorah's earlier blow had shattered his chin and teeth.
"Save your breath… I am a Redflame. Our fire does not bow! Never! I am a Redflame! I am a Redflame!"
'Of course.'
Atticus wasn't surprised. The Redflames were too pompous. Too proud. Making one bow or surrender was to attempt the impossible. A Viscount Redflame, even more so.
Atticus glanced at Anorah, who simply shrugged.
"It doesn't look like he plans to talk. We should kill him."
He didn't miss the killing intent laced in her voice. Atticus gave her a long stare. The more time he spent with this woman, the more he learned about her.
