When Michael finally let go, all that remained of Thorfinn was a mangled, limbless torso, its one remaining eye staring up at the artificial sky with a vacant horror that would haunt the few remaining Skyhall soldiers for the rest of their short, miserable lives.
A hush fell over the battlefield. Even Lenora, usually immune to anything resembling empathy, seemed subdued, her usual bloodlust replaced by a primal unease that spoke volumes.
Her hands still dripping with the blood of a dozen Skyhall angels, she stared at Michael with her brow furrowed. She'd seen him angry before, sure. She'd witnessed firsthand the casual brutality he was capable of unleashing on those who crossed him.
But this… this was different.
This wasn't just about winning a battle, or even a war. This was… personal. And it scared the ever-living shit out of her.
"Damn, boss," she muttered under her breath, wiping a stray splatter of blood from her cheek.
