Rhys felt a flicker of surprise. He had expected hesitation, perhaps a moment of pity for the man who had, in a twisted way, been a part of her childhood.
But there was nothing. Only a cold, hard finality. He gave a slight nod.
He took a single step forward. Austin looked up, his eyes wide with a new wave of terror as he saw Rhys approach.
He let go of Elara's dress and tried to scramble backward, but his broken body would not obey.
Rhys raised his hand.
He did not use his sword. He did not need it. The small, thin blade of the Twilight Edge, a silent construct of pure blackness, formed in his palm.
He flicked his wrist.
The shadow blade shot forward. It did not make a sound as it cut through the air. It touched Austin's forehead.
There was no sound of impact. There was no blood. There was only a brilliant, silent flash of pure white light that erupted from the old steward's head.
