The man's eyes bulged, his voice cracking with shock between ragged gasps.
"Who… who are you? How can a newly ascended be this strong?"
Asher only shrugged, expression unchanging.
"You ask too many questions."
His grip tightened. The worshipper's throat strained under his hand, veins bulging as the pressure of the eldritch aura tried and failed to resist. Then, with one sharp twist, Asher bent the man's neck back—and bit.
Fangs pierced flesh.
Blood spilled, hot and bitter with corruption, flooding across his tongue. But Asher was not drinking for sustenance. His eyes burned crimson, and in the stream of lifeblood came fragments, shards of memory not his own.
