Zagan's crimson eyes glowed with a hungry and predatory light.
He stood tall in the broken arena, his gaze fixed on one man alone.
Azrael.
The so-called hero Kaelen no longer mattered. The wounded students no longer mattered. Even Selvara's broken form at his feet was an afterthought.
His target was clear.
Azrael stood before Selvara, his body a battered shield against a tide of death.
The remaining undead warriors charged, their bones stained black, their hollow eyes glowing with malice.
Azrael didn't hesitate.
His left arm was dead weight, limp at his side, pain gnawing at every nerve. But his right hand was steady. His sword flashed silver. His threads whipped outward, glowing like strands of moonlight.
The first skeleton lunged. A thread wrapped around its ankle, jerking it down hard. It crashed into three more behind it, and all four collapsed in a pile of clattering bones.
