"Arrrghhhhh!!!"
A scream tore through the night as a security officer's arm came away from his shoulder. Not cut. Not severed cleanly. Ripped. A one-horn's grip had closed around flesh and bone, twisted, and pulled until something fundamental gave way. Tendons snapped like overstressed cables. Muscle tore in wet sounds that carried across the camp. The limb came free with the socket still attached, dangling from the Harbinger's fist like a trophy.
The officer—Davis Kowalski, though nobody would remember his name after tonight—stared at the space where his arm used to be. His brain hadn't caught up yet. Shock was a mercy that wouldn't last. His fire manipulation flickered around his remaining hand, orange flames guttering like a candle in wind, completely inadequate for what was happening to him.
