The command chamber of Iron Falcon Fortress reeked of ozone and blood. Outside, the slaughter in the central plaza was drawing to a close; the screams of the Divine Wind infantry died out one by one beneath the claws of the spectral host.
Ethan shoved General Soren onto a sturdy stone chair. With a flick of his wrist, a burst of void flame flash-cauterized the stumps of the general's arms, severing the bleeding at the root while forcing him to choke back a shriek of pain.
"Easy, Soren," said Ethan, pouring two glasses of red wine from the decanter left on Commander Karr's desk. "If you bleed out this quickly, our chat will end far too soon."
Ethan held the glass to the general's lips, but Soren spat blood to the side, glaring at him with eyes injected with rage and pain.
