Michael chuckled, imagining the temporal hell Devdan was probably experiencing. Andohr, that sanctimonious prick, loved to play with time. Stretching it, twisting it, making people relive their worst nightmares over and over again…
"Yeah, that's gotta suck," Michael muttered, a cruel grin twisting his lips. He hoped the elf was suffering, hoped it was a thousand times worse than anything Michael could have inflicted on him. He hadn't forgotten Thorfinn's gleeful confession, hadn't forgotten the thirty days of torture those bastards had inflicted on his mother.
He glanced around the battlefield, his gaze searching for another familiar face.
"Where's Erael, anyway?" he asked, his voice hardening.
She wasn't among the captured soldiers, nor was she among the corpses that littered the ground. She'd vanished, slipped away while he was… elsewhere.
"Clever bitch," he muttered, a flicker of admiration mixing with his anger. "But she won't hide for long."
