Kent threw his scythe aside.
Not dropped it.
Threw it.
The weapon spun end over end through the air, silver distortions snapping and fading as it embedded itself blade-first into the frozen ground a dozen meters away. Space snapped back into place around it with a protesting whine, like reality exhaling after holding its breath too long.
That alone told me how serious this was.
Kent stepped forward, boots crunching against ice, and raised his hands.
Open palms.
No weapon.
No theatrics.
Just intent.
He didn't look at the golem. Not at first. He looked at me.
Really looked.
Blood streaked his face. One sleeve hung in tatters, shoulder still leaking despite my earlier healing. His breathing was uneven, the subtle tremor in his hands impossible to miss if you knew him well enough.
Which, unfortunately, I did.
"This is it," he said quietly.
