Braydon woke up to the sound of muttering, a frown etched onto his face as the haze in his mind fogged up his memories. He opened his eyes only to see two pale faces standing over him.
"What are you doing?" he asked, sitting up from the cold hard floor with some effort. For a moment, he looked confused, his eyes roaming around the hall—as if wondering why he was on the ground in the first place.
Then he saw it, a hole in the rug right between his legs. His brows knitted even further until the memory took hold. Michael, the ice lance—and the fear he felt—the memories came rushing back, causing his face to turn an extreme shade of red.
Embarrassment, rage.
All sorts of emotions bubbled to the surface.
He shot a glare towards his two followers, the ones that had fled and left him to die. Both Craig and Randolph lowered their heads, their guilty expression an admission of wrongdoing, but it was too late.
