He rips the golem's throat out, vibrant flowers sprouting between the nooks and crannies of the whirling cogs in his arm. Electricity erupts from his fingertips, dancing down his dark hair and the light fades, casting two figures in shadow. The boy glances at you, gray eyes wary, hands stained with clay and dust. He leaves, a boy with a lion's mane trailing behind him; this one wipes the blood off his sword as he smiles genially, sharp teeth glinting.

You know better than to follow them.

32 tracks