"So, Roots," Galen crouched beside the broken mass that was Karnag, his red eyes glowing faintly beneath the smoke. "Where is Sylvathar?"
Karnag's jaw trembled. His mouth dripped with dark ichor, the scent of burnt wood and blood clinging to his body. "What makes you think I'll tell you that… human," he spat weakly, trying to sound menacing—but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Galen smirked, but there was no joy behind it—just cold fire. "You still don't get it," he said, his tone calm, almost bored. "Unlike you, I'm a man of my word."
Shhk—
Before Karnag could blink, his left arm was gone.
Severed.
A sickening splurt followed as greenish blood sprayed like a fountain. His scream was raw, primal. His body thrashed in place, but he couldn't move—couldn't even tell how it happened. Galen hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. But the pain was real, and his arm lay yards away, twitching like a dying insect.
"GAHHHH—!!"
