Terror drove Ancestor Draven’s clawed fingers deep into the lining of his shattered breastplate.
The ancient monster did not care about the sixty-five warships drifting in the strait. He did not care about the thousands of Blood-Star sailors staring at his broken body in stunned horror.
He only cared about putting ten thousand miles between himself and the young man in the faded flannel bathrobe.
“Master Ash...” Draven wheezed, black blood bubbling over his split lips. “The errand boy was Master Ash the entire time.”
His trembling fingers closed around a jagged sliver of black obsidian.
It was an ancient Blood-Sacrifice Teleportation Talisman, an irreplaceable life-saving relic carved from the bone of a prehistoric void serpent.
Draven did not hesitate for a fraction of a second.
He bit down hard on the tip of his tongue. He spat a mouthful of burning Saint Vessel marrow directly across the obsidian runes.
