Kariel had never been a man of many words.
He trained hard, he fought harder, and when he had something to say he said it once and meant it. That was all anyone who had ever known him needed to understand about him.
So when he stepped forward and raised his sword, nobody on that battlefield said a word. They just watched.
The Dark Lord looked at him the way you look at an old scar. Familiar. Respected, in its own way. But no longer threatening.
"You don't have to do this," the Dark Lord said.
"I know," Kariel replied.
He attacked.
The sword moved the way it always moved when Kariel was serious, not flashy, not dramatic, just clean and precise and very difficult to avoid. Years of practice had taken every unnecessary thing out of it. What was left was only what mattered.
