"Haha, I will take good care of you. So, what's your name, Windy?" Sparrow's voice was laced with the casual arrogance of a victor speaking to his prize.
He looked at the wind spirit demigod, who stood with his head bowed, his form flickering with shame.
Being sold out by his own God was a humiliation he would carry for a thousand years. But his loyalty was absolute. He would follow his master's order.
"My name is Windy, indeed," the demigod replied, his voice a low, defeated murmur.
Sparrow burst out laughing, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed in the misty clearing. Windy gave him a sharp side-glance, his form swirling with annoyance, and turned away.
"Alright, alright, I won't laugh at your name anymore," Sparrow said, his laughter finally subsiding. He turned his attention to the real prize.
