Then someone whispered.
"...Chief?"
The word spread through the crowd like ripples in still water.
"Chief Dross..."
"That's his head."
"He's dead..."
Gasps echoed through the street. Weapons that had been raised only moments ago slowly lowered. The warriors looked around in confusion, their eyes darting from the head to each other, searching for answers that no one had.
They had been so focused on Darion and the undead that they hadn't noticed when he had disappeared. They hadn't seen him chase Dross. They hadn't seen the fight. They hadn't seen the sword fall. All they had seen was the aftermath. Their chief's head. Lying in the dirt. Dead.
Darion stepped down from the tower.
His footsteps were slow and deliberate, each step echoing softly against the stone. His sword hung at his side, the golden light faded, its purpose fulfilled. He walked calmly. Almost casually. As though nothing unusual had happened.
