‘ my bones are headstones ’
The unholy, disgusting magic surged, and so what was once dead would rise again. The corpse rose. Now a slave to the will of an arrogant human, naught more than byproduct of cosmic dust—and yet in their delusion, believed themselves to be gods. Toying with forces they did not understand.
The beast moaned in pain, a plea to be let back free, to return to the eternal slumber of death. A plea that went on ignored by the delusional human, who spewed nothing but nonsense, seeking validation from a higher source.
Michael could hardly stomach it.
His lip curled in disgust, followed by a scoff— cinders and ashes billowed forth. With a slight motion of his hand, one of his blades flew forth; elegant and precise. And in a moment, the blade had decapitated the corpse— almost like a trick of light.
As if thanking the archangel for his mercy, the beast silenced its cries before slumping forward, fading away into dust— from whence he came, he returned.
Michael’s burning gaze turned away from the pitiful display, now to the necromancer. And where once anger was clear on his face, nothing but apathy remained.
“ Don’t speak such nonsense. You are no more important than they are.”
