Auren walked forward, slow and deliberate, thoughts heavy on his mind.
The only real weapon he had was death.
It had already been unveiled before his comrades, that cruel trick of resurrection. But he didn't want to keep using it—didn't want to die again and again, chipping away at their sanity until they could no longer look at him the same.
Then there was Asenya.
She was sketchy as hell, unpredictable in ways that made his instincts bristle. If her true intentions ever came to light, his strange camaraderie with death might be the only weapon sharp enough to cut through her facade. He couldn't waste that card—not yet.
And then, there was pride.
Dying to a Catastrophic Blighted? It didn't sit right. Not with him. It gnawed at something buried deep in his chest… not quite his heart, but close.
