The sneer on the man's face lingered like a blade ready to strike. His grizzled features were marked by scars, but Damien remembered him clearly—Roderic, one of Elyas's captains, a man thought lost when Elyas's forces had crumbled months ago. Now, standing in the center of the tent with a sword drawn and firelight casting long shadows across his face, he looked anything but defeated.
Damien's steel-gray eyes narrowed, his grip on his sword firm. "You're alive."
Roderic grinned darkly, the hilt of his sword gleaming in his rough hands. "Surprised? You shouldn't be, Damien. Did you really think you and your little rebellion-hunting crusade had wiped us all out?"
"I thought you'd run," Damien replied coldly, stepping further into the tent, his voice a steady rumble. "I should've known better. People like you don't run—you hide and fester until you're ready to strike."
