"You filthy half-blood mongrel! You dare kill my pet?!"
Odin staggered to his feet, blood running down his face, emerging from the ruins with an unconscious elf in his grasp.
The poor bastard wasn't just any elf—it was Aelon, the very one who had gambled everything, pushed his limits, only to be used and discarded by Odin as a pawn.
The battle against the Cursed Fiend had left the dwarven army nearly annihilated. Nine out of ten had perished in the desperate fight.
But Odin had survived.
And he had won.
Despite the massacre, he had claimed the one thing that mattered—the Titan's Curse embedded in his bloodline was now broken.
From this day forward, the Grey Dwarves would never again be bound by the influence of the Cursed Fiend.
Orson merely smirked, his tone light.
"Four heads snapping at me, and I was just supposed to stand there and take it?"
Odin's eyes burned with hatred.