The world narrowed. A single, savage, and desperate moment. Korgan's greatsword, a descending meteor of cold, final judgment, was inches from his throat. But Edward's clawed hand, a blur of dark, monstrous desperation, was faster.
His sharpened nails tore through the soft and unprotected flesh of Korgan's throat. A wet, ripping sound. Not a clean, surgical cut. A brutal, animalistic act of pure, survivalist violence.
He dug his claws in deep. Shredding muscle. The mercenary lord's windpipe. A single, horrific motion.
Korgan's victorious grunt was cut off. Replaced by a choked, gurgling sound. A fountain of hot, crimson blood erupted from his mangled throat.
The greatsword wavered. It fell from his grasp. Clattering harmlessly to the stone beside Edward's head.
The mercenary king's eyes widened. A look of pure, uncomprehending shock. He looked down at the slender, dark-clad boy pinned beneath his boot.
