Mot did not share in the grim smile. His expression was sharper now, the usual mask of half-amusement gone, replaced with a furrow of irritation that cut across his childlike features. He shifted his staff in hand and let out a low breath that hissed through his teeth.
"This is going to be a problem…" he muttered, almost to himself. The words were not laced with fear, but with annoyance, as though the unfolding disaster were more troublesome than terrifying.
"A problem," Ludwig answered, his own tone grim and unflinching. Oathcarver was raised in his grip, the weapon's black edge catching the dim light of the battlefield. Around its blade the aura that had carried him through endless death struggles now trembled faintly, as though even the weapon itself sensed the weight of the foe before them. Ludwig's voice was steady but low, measured. "I doubt we'll live this one."
