The Lord clenched his fists, seething with rage and frustration as he turned toward Vlad. Killing the young warrior would require just a flick of his finger. One move. One breath. And Vlad would be nothing but a memory. But doing so would also seal his own fate.
Even as a being far beyond the realm of mortals—a lofty existence elevated above mere Legends—he understood perfectly well that in a battle against the White Death, he would lose. Every time. Ten times out of ten. No exceptions.
Of course, things might be different if he had the full, unshakable backing of Valhalla, the great civilization that crowned gods and birthed nightmares. But that was not going to happen. He was already considered a stain in Valhalla, and if the Elders would be happy to see him die.
Taking a deep breath, the middle-aged Lord forced himself to regain composure. Slowly, he turned toward Octavio, voice cold and commanding.
"What are you waiting for? Rise from the ground and kill that man."
