Stephan and Olath left the river behind. From there stretched only barren wasteland leading toward the looming black mountain. The leafless trees thinned until none remained, the cracked earth beneath their boots spreading like broken glass. Heat shimmered across the desolation, baking the land.
"I think you made a mistake," Olath's voice broke the silence. The boy's tone was calm, but firm, uncharacteristically so.
Stephan glanced down at him. "You think so, huh?"
"You shouldn't have let him live." Olath's eyes stayed forward, fixed on the horizon. "Not if he's your rival."
Stephan smirked faintly. "I think you clearly heard why I let him walk away."
"That was a foolish reason," the boy replied coldly. "Spare an enemy, and he'll rise again to strike you when you least expect it. You don't get chances like that twice. Among gnomes, if an enemy lay broken at our feet, be he orc or elf, we'd cut his throat without hesitation."
