Lugh reached into his inner pocket and drew out his revolver.
The weapon had seen better days—its polished surface scorched and warped from heat, the barrel slightly bent at the tip, and the grip marred with burn marks. And yet, despite its mangled appearance, it had served him well.
Faithfully, even. Not as the Prince had originally intended, of course—hell, Lugh doubted even the Prince could've imagined someone wringing this much utility from it.
There was just one small issue.
All the extra bullets Lovainne had crammed into his uniform's pockets were gone—vaporized in the blast. As for the uniform itself?
He couldn't even find the ashes.
That left him with just five shots.
Five precious bullets. Five chances. Five demands for significance.
They should only be used in the most critical of events—emergencies, mortal duels, assassination attempts, perhaps even a divine revelation.
Was disciplining a loudmouth important?
Yes. Very.
