In a dingy, dark cavern, Mord stood before the watery silhouette of a man.
Bowing his head low, he spoke. "Master, the witch is dead."
"Did she give up anything useful?" his master asked carelessly.
"No, she bit her own tongue before I could pry anything more out of her," Mord answered.
"Dark witches, such tricky little creatures." His master clicked his tongue in displeasure.
Mord silently agreed.
He felt deeply irritated that even after hours of torture, she had given them nothing. He had only been able to vent his frustration by mangling her body beyond recognition, and the memory of it brought a dark, twisted joy to his chest.
He cleared his throat and spoke again. "There is more, Master…"
"What is it?"
"Someone has been running interference in our operation. We do not know who they are, but the power they possess does not seem to belong to anyone of this world."
"Oh? And what kind of power are we talking about?" his master asked, his tone dripping with intrigue.
