I tilted my head and raised my blade.
"Choose."
The shaman's face twisted—not in fear, but in offense—as if my presence alone left a bitter taste in his mouth.
His lips curled, nostrils flared, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of genuine frustration behind his eyes, the kind that creeps in when things stop going according to plan, but it passed, almost too quickly, and its sour look melted away, replaced by something slower... smoother... more practiced.
A grin began to form—thin at first, then spreading like oil on water until it curved into something sharp and smug, a sneer masquerading as a smile.
He tilted his head, rolled his shoulders, and spun his staff between his fingers with the kind of ease that only came from arrogance, before saying in a conversational tone.
