The next day was blistering like any other, and something somewhere within Malik's twisted brain had found that comforting.
His time had arrived.
Standing at the base of the scorched tree, he held up his shamshir, pointing it to the sky.
His blade was the only thing that stood between him and salvation or fiery death.
Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't dare move to wipe it.
Every ounce of his focus was on the Qird above him.
It was sprawled lazily across the branch, completely exposed, vulnerable.
Its flames were reduced to faint, flickering embers.
And its little fire spawns? Nowhere in sight.
Probably off learning how to burn something else alive.
Everything was lined up perfectly.
This was it—the moment he'd been waiting for.
Days spent tailing this flaming terror, learning every quirk and habit, were about to pay off.
