K's sleeve fluttered as the wind settled around him, the sound strangely gentle for someone who had just dismissed Garron's corpse with nothing more than a bored glance. His eyes—those calm, cutting, fathomless eyes—lowered to the fallen body for only a breath.
"Useless goon."
No grief.
No irritation.
Just mild annoyance, like stepping on a wet stone.
K's attention shifted, sharp as a blade turning toward its next victim.
He took one step toward Khael.
Just one.
The earth underneath cracked.
"Well…" K murmured, voice smooth, almost polite. "Hand me the shard, Khael Corzedar. I know you have it."
A shock rippled through Khael's chest, cold and loud.
The weight of the shard suddenly felt like a mountain pressing against his ribs.
Khael's breath tightened.
Before Master Vince died… he slipped it into my pocket. I can't let him, I can't let anyone take it. Not him. Not ever.
