The killing intent radiating from Xallon was so intense it felt like drowning in a malice. Lucas's soldiers stood frozen, their weapons trembling in hands that had never known such primal terror. This wasn't just another Harbinger—this was apex predation given form and consciousness.
"Ah, yes," Xallon purred, his theatrical accent making every word sound like poetry written in blood. "That expression. Do you know how many worlds I've conquered, my dear little humans? How many species I've watched transition from hope to despair to acceptance? The faces change—tentacles, scales, fur, flesh—but that look... that beautiful realization that death has come calling... it's universal."
He traced one clawed finger along the massive scar crossing his chest, the tissue damage so severe that even Harbinger healing couldn't completely erase it.
