"Three centuries of murder and consumption, and in the end, you'd just be a footnote."
***
The smoke swirled around them like grey silk. Caught what little torchlight remained and threw dancing shadows across the tunnel walls.
Rhys pressed his back against the cold stone. His injured shoulder screamed protests as he tried to make sense of what was happening.
Through the haze he could see the transformed shaman spinning in confused circles. Its claws slashed at empty air.
The beast's movements had lost their earlier confidence.
Where before it had stalked with the certainty of an apex predator toying with wounded prey, now it stumbled and lurched like a drunk trying to find his footing on a ship's deck during a storm.
"Still playing the monster, Mor-thak-gul?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Casual as someone commenting on the weather during a leisurely stroll through the academy gardens.
But the name.
