Auron's grin had widened. He was half-propped against a chunk of fallen stone, the last scraps of necrotic webbing peeled from his clothes. In the chamber's low, flickering light, his expression seemed almost bestial. There was a savage triumph in his eyes, a cruelty that far overshadowed the battered state of his body. His breath rasped, but that mocking smile refused to fade. As if reading Mikhailis's intentions, Auron's grin stretched further still, revealing a row of teeth stained with desperation and mania.
In that moment, Mikhailis felt as though an invisible bowstring drew tighter around the room, the hush so fragile it might shatter at any sound. A subtle fear fluttered in his stomach, but he clenched his hands, ignoring the twinge from his bruised muscles.
Laethor, to his right, shuffled uncertainly, the scuffed soles of his boots scraping over grit and broken marble. Mikhailis noted the battered man's readiness to move, but also the flicker of dread in his narrowed eyes.
