I used my hands. I used the raw, ugly training of a man who had been a soldier before he was a sorcerer. The fight was short and brutal; he was a mage of high caliber, but he didn't know how to take a punch to the kidney or a knee to the solar plexus.
I pinned him to the ground, my hand hovering over the point on his neck that would end the connection forever.
Before I struck, he looked at me. There was no fear in his eyes, only a strange, unsettling certainty.
"The edges are fraying, Emperor," he whispered, his voice a dry, rattling sound. "Can't you feel it? The pressure in the air?"
I frowned, my grip tightening. "What are you talking about?"
"The story," he said, a jagged smile touching his lips. "It's reaching the ending. And the ending was never meant to be survived. You think you've won? You're just the last candle in a room where the walls are disappearing."
I didn't wait for him to finish. I struck, and the world went silent.
