Drax stared at him—really stared this time.
Lucifer. The kid who used to sit cross-legged in their courtyard, nibbling fruit and staring at the stars like he was one of them. The same brat who once asked Drax if he could see his fangs after seeing him one day when he showed his true face. Back then, Drax had laughed, compelled him to forget after telling him when he grows older.
And now?
That brat was telling him—Drax, an Elder among Elders—to run or die.
He almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, he cracked his neck to the side. Bones popped like breaking branches.
"So that's it, huh?" he said, voice deep, rough, like gravel dragged across a tombstone. "The runt grew teeth."
Lucifer said nothing. He stood there, loose, unbothered, like Drax was a background prop.
Drax's grin tightened. "I should've ripped out your heart when I had the chance."
He spread his arms.
And the ground bled.
