The Ancient King's back pressed harder against the obsidian throne as the three warriors closed in like wolves sensing wounded prey. His sun mask, once pristine and terrifying in its golden perfection, now bore spider web cracks that leaked thin streams of dark ichor. The hollow eyes that had stared with such malevolent confidence now seemed to flicker with something that might have been desperation—or perhaps it was merely the reflection of the lightning dancing around Aziel's form.
"You should have let the corruption kill you," Arthur's voice loud, carrying a hint of angered confidence. His shadow-wreathed blade pulsed with accumulated energy, the weapon now more void than steel, drinking in light and hope with equal voracity.
