“It’s too late, Zelan. I’m here, whether I’m welcome or not.”
“It’s not my time.”
“That’s not what I’ve been told.”
“Zelan, don’t beg. It never works. It grates on me. Give me your hand.”
“Will you make me act?”
“I won’t die voluntarily.”
“You think this will be a fair fight? It will only be painful, and take longer than it should. I’ll give you a minute to think about it...”
Zelan turned to run, only to find Nefarion in front of him.
“I’ll give you one last chance to preserve your dignity; give me your hand. It will be over quickly, I promise.”
“To hell with your promises!”
Nefarion smiled at the usage, then unsheathed his sword.
“I’m sorry you chose this, Zelan.”
He swung, and the sword tore through Zelan’s side, setting him on fire with a flame he couldn’t put out; the pain, when it hit, was too intense for him to scream, and he staggered from the force of the blow.
His skin blackened, crackled, bubbled, and his eyes turned to liquid white in his head, but didn’t melt away; he could still see.
Now with his body writhing in agony, and his voice hoarse with hopeless anguish, he fell to his knees and looked up at Nefarion. His charred skin cracked, and it seemed magma replaced his blood, bright and hot as it hissed, steamed, and slogged beneath his ruined corpse.
“You told me I would die! You fucking liar, you told me I would die!”
“I work for the father of lies, Zelan.
“You should’ve given me your hand.”