A harsh, guttural roar tore from High Executioner Vane-Korr’s throat, spraying drops of boiling crimson phlegm across the basalt flagstones.
“A hearth-poker,” Vane-Korr hissed, his chest rising and falling like a broken bellows. “You dare face an imperial executioner with chimney iron?”
The dark meteoric halberd trembled in his grip. The three hundred bone-teeth lining its blade vibrated at high frequency, humming with savage, blood-soaked intent.
“You are an Early-stage Saint,” Vane-Korr snarled, spitting out a mouthful of clotted red foam. “Your vessel has barely fused its marrow. My armor was quenched in the bile of deep-sea kraken. It turned aside nine thunder-strikes during the siege of Iron-Grave!”
He took a menacing step forward, letting the jagged teeth of his blade scrape against the stone floor. Sparks showered over his greaves like angry hornets.
“Four hundred years I have served the High Censorate,” Vane-Korr growled. “I have broken seventy fortress gates with this blade. I have butchered whole merchant dynasties who thought their gold could buy my mercy. And you stand there in a moth-eaten robe, holding kitchen junk?”
Kaelen Vance rested the bent poker against his shoulder and scratched his chin.
“You talk too much before you swing,” Kaelen said mildly. “My tea is already cold. If you take another three minutes, Barnaby will have to reheat the kettle.”
