"You pathetic little fuck," Michael growled, his voice dangerously low. He stared at Thorfinn, really stared at him, and for a moment, the dwarf regretted pissing off the Dark Lord.
Thorfinn braced himself, expecting the killing blow. He'd seen what that obsidian blade could do, witnessed the way it cleaved through flesh and bone as if they were nothing more than thin paper. But the killing blow didn't come. Not in the way Thorfinn expected.
Michael, with a casualness that bordered on the absurd, simply tossed the sword aside. It arced through the air, a blur of obsidian and shadow, before landing with a soft click in the waiting scabbard on Michael's back.
"What—? What are you—" Thorfinn sputtered, confusion momentarily overriding his terror.
Michael didn't answer. Instead, he did something far more unsettling. He smiled.
It wasn't the cruel, mocking smile he'd worn before. This one was different. Smaller. Cruler. And infinitely more terrifying.
