Adrian lay still for half a breath, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue.
Blood soaked into the fractured earth beneath him—Abraham's blood. The man's body lay twisted nearby, unmoving, eyes dulled by death. A dark pool spread outward, seeping into cracks carved by violence.
"You have grown strong," Nytharos said lazily.
The Fallen God lounged upon his throne as if watching a performance rather than standing amidst a battlefield littered with blood and battle marks.
Adrian pushed himself up with a low snarl, boots grinding against the ground. He did not lower his guard—not for a second. His gaze remained fixed on the man seated before him.
"And you," Adrian said coldly, "are still as nasty as ever."
Nytharos shrugged, resting his chin on his knuckles. "In his current state, that maggot had no chance of defeating you. So, to spice things up a little…" His lips curled. "I intervened."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
Twice.
