Commander Marcus Vane didn't negotiate.
He stood at the threshold of the open elevator shaft, his scorched, soot stained armor presenting a terrifying image against the pale stone wall. His long executioner blade remained pressed completely flat against Darius's throat, drawing a thin, perfectly straight line of bright red blood.
Behind him, dozens of fresh black plate shock troops kept their mechanical iron crossbows raised, their sights locked onto the heavily bleeding remnants of the Guild.
"You have three seconds left, little bird," Marcus said, his voice entirely calm, practical, and devoid of a single drop of mercy. "Give me the stone disk map. If I see a single twitch from your hands, the old man's head rolls across these floorboards."
"Don't do it, Elara!" Darius snarled, a thick spray of dark spit leaving his lips as he tried to look past the blade. "Don't you give this bastard a single thing! Let him cut!"
