The stitched man chose that exact moment to remind everyone why he was stitched in the first place.
He barreled forward still, picking up speed now, ripping through the heap of relics and blades in the center of the plaza like an artisan disassembling a poorly-made sculpture, shards of steel and splinters of wood flying in all directions.
Each step landed like a drumbeat, vibrating up my battered spine until my teeth rattled, every swing of his maul promising to make paste of anything that stood in its way.
The mage mirrored him, pace accelerating into a jog that somehow looked leisurely even as it promised planetary extinction.
Their trajectories aligned, and at the epicenter of that cataclysm sat Rodrick—slumped, bloody, his face a ruin, yet still clutching his sword in defiance like the stubborn bastard he was.
