Barak stood alone in the chamber, his chest heaving, his sword dripping with blood. He was exhausted, but he was triumphant.
He looked at the chieftain's body and smiled—a cold, bitter smile.
"This is what I am," he said to no one. "This is what I can do."
But even as he spoke, the demon's voice echoed in his mind, soft and seductive.
Oh, you can do so much more, little human. So much more.
Barak's smile faltered. His hand tightened on his sword.
He was not done. Not yet.
The chieftain's body lay at Barak's feet, its massive frame still twitching with the last remnants of lightning. Steam rose from its scorched flesh, and the smell of burnt blood filled the damp air of the dungeon. Barak stood over it, his chest heaving, his sword still crackling with residual energy. His golden eyes were wild, unfocused, lost in a sea of rage.
But he was not done.
