Yet reality mocked him.
Narg wasn't flailing, wasn't scrambling.
He was dictating the pace of the fight, bending it to his rhythm. His expression barely changed, calm and collected, every movement deliberate.
And that realization twisted like a blade in his gut.
How?
How was this possible?
This goblin had been nothing more than one of Eli's lackeys.
He wasn't supposed to be this formidable.
He wasn't supposed to be this skilled.
And yet here he was, turning aside every assault, holding his ground with the confidence of a chosen.
Amon's grip on his staff tightened.
How was this goblin so good?
Narg was no ordinary goblin, that much was clear, but even then, the gap in his performance was difficult to reconcile.
