Asher narrowed his eyes. "Is that the Crown of the Warfather?" he asked, his voice calm, yet edged with steel. His gaze fixed on the pitch-black helm she wore.
A diamond-shaped crystal gleamed at its center, embedded into the forehead like a third eye. Four sharp protrusions jutted skyward, giving the helm the cruel silhouette of a twisted crown.
Sariel tilted her head slightly, the faintest smirk curving her lips. "Is that what you're here for? I thought you came seeking the Ring of Authority," she said, her voice smooth as silk, yet laced with mockery.
Asher said nothing. He brandished his claymore in a fluid motion and dashed forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed. He had already seen it, her eyes, her posture, her aura.
Sariel wasn't going to kneel. In fact, she hadn't even acknowledged him as an equal. Whether that arrogance stemmed from the crown or her own nature didn't matter.
