The air trembled in silence before a blinding crash shattered the stillness of the town square.
Luther sprang back just in time as a rubic fist hammered into the stone where he had been standing. Cracks lit the floor like splintered lightning, dust exploding outward in a whirlwind of broken wreckage.
The shockwave ran along the street, rattling the bones of the dead that hung from splintered scaffolding.
In the dust of flying fragments, time crept like a snail. Each shard of shattered tile spun end over end in the air, catching the waning sun like little needles as it pierced Luther's face. His cloak whipped about with savage fury in the whirlwind — a black sea on the bloody heaven. His silver hair whipped wildly about, his face impassive yet his blue eyes agleam with icicle-thin bravery.
The demon sword pulsed in his hand, its blade scored with fine, red-black veins. A faint voice crept into his mind, whispered but listening.
