Sir Santo didn't speak. He simply raised his hand, and golden light gathered in his palm, not soft, not healing, not gentle. It was sharp, jagged, and hungry.
He struck.
The light hit the worm king's body, and the creature screamed. A wound opened on its side, deep, jagged, smoking. The flesh around it blackened and curled, and black blood sprayed across the room.
Sir Santo struck again.
Another wound. Another scream.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each strike was precise, calculated, cruel. He aimed for the soft spots between the scales, for the joints, for the eyes. He aimed for the places that would hurt the most, that would bleed the most, that would make the creature suffer the longest.
The angels watched in horror.
"Sir Santo," one of them whispered. "What is he doing?"
"He's killing it," another answered, her voice shaking.
"But priests don't—they can't—"
Sir Santo struck again.
