"Yes," Lucian hissed, a manic grin splitting across his face. "I made you strong. I shaped you. I forged you into a warrior. Without me, you are nothing!"
"Since the beginning til the end, it wasn't you who conquered the NightWhizkersz trial. It was me! ME! I laid the path! I sowed the seeds! The Sword of the End should be mine. Sheol should be mine!"
Then his tone dropped, his expression darkening into something far more dangerous.
"Give it to me, Ereskia," he said coldly, "and join Aphaeleon. Do that, and I'll spare you. I'll spare your brother. It's a generous offer. You should take it."
There was a long pause.
Then, from the ground, Ereskia lifted her head.
She laughed.
It was broken, hoarse. Pain threaded every breath, but the defiance in her voice rang clear.
"Then kill me," she spat, blood trailing from her lips. "You'll never get your hands on Sheol."
BAM!
