Roldan's silver hair lashed in the wind, his slit-like red eyes glowing with an unholy fire. The stench of rot clung to the air.
"I don't need your so-called Solum help," he muttered, voice edged with restrained fury. His claws flexed, embers sparking at his fingertips. "You dared to harm someone close to my master. You deserve death."
The figure stood unmoving, their very presence warping the land. Roots writhed unnaturally beneath his feet, the soil blackening where he stepped. Dark spores pulsed in the air like a heartbeat.
"I did what was necessary," the figure rasped, voice dry and brittle, like dead leaves whispering in the wind.
A low growl rumbled in Roldan's throat. In a blink, he vanished—a streak of silver and fire tearing across the hill. His claws found flesh.
SLASH!