The Sinvaira paused, its shadowy form hovering in place as it waited for some kind of outward reaction from Azaron, anything at all. Rage. Anger. A surge of killing intent. Even the eruption of his presence would have sufficed. Yet none of that came. Azaron remained as calm as ever, his expression unmoved, his posture relaxed, as though the Sinvaira's words had meant absolutely nothing.
If there was one wish Azaron held in life, aside from the resurrection of his wife, it was to encounter a Sinvaira.
A Sinvaira had killed his father.
