The moment Nicholas Grey stepped down from the glowing arena throne, the atmosphere snapped taut like a pulled wire.
The air seemed to hold its breath. His silver hair fluttered as he turned away, exhausted, his last art having drained him entirely.
Across the fractured floor of the throne arena, the strange geometric etchings on the black tiles pulsed red once more. It was hungry for a new master.
But Nicholas didn't vanish. No. Instead, he gave a low laugh, that kind of cocky chuckle Creed had come to loathe.
The bastard was still full of energy where it counted the worst: his mouth.
"You've got twenty minutes," he said, chuckling in that smug, mouthy tone Creed had fantasized about stabbing for the last hour.
"If you don't have that third throne fragment by then, I'll just sit my pretty ass right back down and restart the countdown. And guess what?"
He leaned in slightly, grinning. "You'll get to try and throw me off all over again. Fun, right?"
