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The knife clattered to the ground.
Its edge was stained dark red with fresh blood, spattering the previously immaculate floor. The sight of it set Eredin’s blood to a boil, and he lunged for his opponent, now weaponless. His right arm felt off, but there was no pain yet, and he had to utilise that.
Rigíel was clearly caught off-guard, and Eredin subdued them easily.
He knelt over them, breathing heavily, watching dark red pool on the floor. He’d never thought his second-in-command would be one for backstabbing – but then, they’d been face to face.
Brían would be so mad.