The poison was a slow, insidious fire, and the Goblin King was a mountain beginning to crumble from within. The single drop of his dark, viscous blood that had fallen from the wound in his neck sizzled on the stone floor, a testament to the potent neurotoxin now coursing through his veins. His movements, once a blur of brutal speed, grew sluggish. His roars of fury, which had once shaken the very foundations of the cavern, turned to pained, confused grunts. He stumbled, his massive obsidian club falling from his grasp with a deafening clang that echoed through the silent, blood-soaked chamber.
He was wounded. He was dying.
This was our chance.
I surged forward again, my body a symphony of screaming muscles and fractured bones, but my mind was a cold, clear instrument of destruction. I was no longer a mage, no longer a strategist. I was a predator, and my prey was finally within reach.
