The man on the chair was Deamon. As he slowly rose from his seat, his fierce expression softened into one of measured curiosity. He walked toward Dylan with an air of authority, each step resonating with the silent command he held over the room.
Black Arrow stepped forward, her movements fluid and precise, and handed Deamon Dylan's sword. Deamon examined the blade with a nod of appreciation. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice carrying a hint of the camaraderie they once shared. "You leave us and then come back with a cursed blade. This is really fine stuff."
These two had known each other since childhood, a time when they would have killed for one another as brothers. But their paths had diverged, their opinions and allegiances now starkly different.
Dylan frowned, concern etched on his face. "Where is Timothy?"
