The pain shot through him like a spear of molten iron. Daemon's fingers trembled around the hilt, clutching the blade embedded deep in his abdomen. The sword wasn't content just to wound him — it pulsed, pressing deeper, like it had a mind of its own.
"Damn it..." he hissed, blood trailing from the corner of his lips. "Are you angry because I called you trash?"
Across the room, the Skeleton King watched with eerie stillness, the hollow sockets of his skull fixed on Daemon's struggling body. Then the king scoffed, turning his armored back.
"Tch. I warned you," his voice rattled through the chamber. "That blade chooses no master. I've seen it devour men stronger than you. It'll finish you off before I even lift a finger."
The old monarch stepped away slowly, the weight of centuries of disappointment hanging heavy in his tone. "No need for me to dirty my hands."
