The curved blade in Owain's hand caught the torchlight as he turned it in his hand, briefly admiring the way the flames danced along its edge as he crossed the room toward the pale-faced acolytes. It was a good knife, well-balanced and sharp enough to part flesh from bone with minimal effort.
It wasn't as good as the skinning knife he carried when he hunted wild game for the feasting table, or when he hunted demons in the wilderness, but it didn't have to be. After all, he wasn't here to claim a trophy today, and even if he dared to harvest the skull of an Inquisitor to add to the collection in the office he'd just inherited, it wouldn't belong to either of these minions.
