"Are you going to kill us?" Varros asked, finally voicing the question that had been writhing in every knight's mind.
His voice trembled slightly—not from weakness of heart, but from the sheer weight of helplessness pressing against him. There was no defiance left. No flame. Only a question.
Yxthul, now floating just a few feet above the ground, cocked his head. His abyssal eyes blinked slowly, as if amused by the inquiry of these mortal fools.
"Kill you?" he repeated, almost casually. "No, no. I have no interest in slaying the unripe."
He began to drift slowly in the air, hands behind his back, inspecting the area like a noble strolling through his private garden. "I want you gone. That's all. Gone from this land. Never return. Never send another patrol, or scouting party, or expedition to 'cleanse' what you do not understand."
His tone grew sharper, each word now carrying the weight of something far older and darker than the battlefield around them.
