Auren and Asenya stood in perfect decorum, alert to their surroundings. The desert's cold breath howled eerily, lifting specks of sand that danced in the air before falling back to earth, where they glistened with a pale, beautiful sparkle that mirrored the moon's silver light.
Asenya extended her hand, palm up.
"My sword..."
Auren met her gaze, and with a simple gesture, Withering Fate materialized in his hands. The moment it appeared, Asenya's face twisted into a dark grimace.
"What is that?"
Auren offered a sheepish grin.
"Well, how do I explain this... hehe... I sort of ate your sword."
How could he possibly explain that his soul had devoured everything in the Home of Rage—the swords, the throne, all of it? Now, he could feel them residing within his soul, not as shards, but as extensions of himself. Corrupted.
