It had been about an hour since I awoke from the painful, toxic slumber, and yet my body still burned as if I had been placed in a vat of the alchemist's noxious acid.
And despite how loud he brayed over how my 'actions were of ill-rational' or 'how I had forced him to waste a half a year's worth of vital his powder', I knew that he was celebrating my suffering, deep down in that tarry, blighted heart of his.
"You may say it all you like, my lord, but I still cannot entirely… put stock… in the fact that you-"
