The longsword, Doomscourge, was pressed against Iskar's neck. An archlord like this wasn't even worth drawing the war scythe for.
Silence.
The chaotic sky fell quiet. The swarm of vampires, seeing their leader subdued in a single move, vanished back into the blood-mist, fleeing from Orion as if he were the Reaper himself.
Iskar didn't move. He didn't dare speak. A bone-deep chill shot up his spine, his mind still struggling to process what had just happened.
Sizzle.
A flicker of fire ignited along Doomscourge's edge. The doomsday flame licked at Iskar's skin, and he felt the cold, undeniable touch of his own mortality.
"Honored one," Iskar forced out, his voice tight with terror, "could you perhaps retract that unquenchable flame?"
He was horrified to find that his own supernatural power was useless against the fire. Worse, it seemed to be feeding the flames, making them burn hotter.
