"DIE!" Francis voiced, a single word, tinged by a spray of spittle, a handsome man, marred by his own erraticness.
But all his icy attacks had achieved was a cloud of dust and obscurity. Dominus emerged, unfazed, his sword still calmly by his side.
"Juvenile," he told him, his voice betrayed no anger.
That single word was enough to cut right through the heart of Francis' being. It was the same look that he had seen others give him, men of higher status, the old professors that had seen promise in him. It was pity, mixed with something else. Was it disappointment? Whatever it was, it was an infuriating concoction.
Francis had the might of the world at his fingertips, or so he felt. His mage was only limited by his imagination and his efficiency. His lack of known spells did not prove to be an issue any longer, for he did not need the comfortable scope that a spell provided. His mana was so vast that he could simply force his magic into existence.
