Krax hurled the general across the main hall. The man skidded over the polished obsidian floor, his dented armor scraping loudly against the black glass.
He groaned and clutched his ribs. Krax tossed the scavenged breastplate onto a nearby table and rolled his shoulders to stretch his muscles.
"He whined the entire march back," Krax complained, kicking a stray piece of rubble. "But he is breathing. You can have him."
Syra stepped out from the shadows of a vaulted archway. She twirled a condensed shadow dagger between her fingers, her eyes locked on the prisoner.
The general slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked around the pristine, alien architecture of the newly formed base. His confusion rapidly gave way to sheer panic.
This was not a military camp he recognized.
