Michael's voice was barely more than a whisper.
But the moment he spoke those words, a chill spread down his spine.
It wasn't fear. Not quite yet.
It was more like unease.
A kind of phantom itch just beneath the skin—an instinct honed by countless hours relying on undead that were nothing more than loyal minions. Minions that never questioned, never wavered, never thought.
Now?
He felt something.
Not cold obedience.
Not mindless loyalty.
Just Spartan's presence.
He felt something in there—however, it was not like a puppet waiting for strings, but like a soldier acknowledging a general.
Respectful. But aware.
Michael's brows drew together.
To himself, he thought: If Spartan wanted to… could he fight me now?
The possibility had never once occurred to him before. It shouldn't even exist.
For the first time since becoming a necromancer, Michael felt a flicker of insecurity.
It wasn't that he believed Spartan would rebel.
It was that he now realized Spartan could.
