The flutist did not answer immediately, instead allowing the tune to linger as the wind carried it outward, slipping past the edge of the cliff and vanishing into the darkened land below, where the remnants of light and shadow were still clashing faintly in the distance, before he finally lowered the flute slightly and spoke in a soft, almost gentle voice that somehow made the fear grow thicker.
"I only adjusted the rhythm of his body," he said calmly, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at the man on the ground, "his blood, his breath, and his intent simply stopped agreeing with each other."
The fallen man's fingers twitched, his eyes rolling back as cold sweat poured down his face, while the others exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier greed now tainted by a creeping dread that gnawed at their confidence.
