"What is this, Uncle?"
Mika strolled forward, hands in his pockets, regarding the kneeling king with a look of mischievous reproach.
"It was my turn multiple times now, and you kept taking moves for yourself. That's not very sporting of you."
Vorthar's eyes were trembling. "Wait—brat, no —"
"Well, since you've finally stopped." Mika said, coming to a stop directly in front of him. "I suppose I should take my turn."
He reached up, grabbed a huge clump of scales on his own neck—hundreds of them, far more than Vorthar had taken in all his turns combined—and ripped them out.
Pachuk!
Five hundred scales. Gone.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Vorthar's scream split the air. He collapsed, rolling, thrashing, his body convulsing as the mirrored agony detonated through every nerve, every muscle, every inch of his being.
"IT HURTS! IT HURTS! IT HURTS SO MUCH! AHHH!"
Mika watched him writhe, and his smile slowly widened into something with an edge of genuine sadism.
