Kael cursed under his breath.
That hand, that hand, hadn't just tossed a corpse. It had done it the way someone flicked away trash.
Thick fingers like stone pillars, knuckles the size of Kael's head, nails black and blunt like chipped obsidian.
If that thing decided to grab you instead of throw you, there wouldn't even be time to scream. It would close once, and your ribs would fold like wet paper.
And they were calling it a hobgoblin.
Kael's eyes drifted to the metal gate again, then to the board, then back to the stain on the floor where the last guy had landed in pieces.
The stink in the hall was starting to settle, blood that had already cooled, sweat that hadn't, and the faint metallic tang of fear, the kind that made people breathe through their mouths without realizing it.
"Who's going next?" the guard next to the gate asked.
