"Kill him. And don't die until you do."
Silence followed.
Killian felt something cold crawl down his spine. Disgust and dread.
The injured rider remained afloat with his blood-stained aerial rings.
His shoulders drooped and his body begged for gravity to take it. Blood poured from the hole the tendrils made through his chest.
Yet the rider remained standing because he had to.
Killian swallowed hard, stepping away from them.
'Within the realm, the Crafter was God.'
Those words had never terrified him as much as it did at that moment.
The Crafter pointed at Killian and the other injured riders lowered themselves from the tendrils.
Neither their injuries nor fear mattered. They moved as though they received the same order.
Killian clicked his tongue, and his grip loosened around the dagger. Before helpless puppets wearing human skin, his resolve slightly faltered.
The leader of the outcasts chuckled, gaining his attention. She watched his expression and smiled.
