My world had been reduced to a narrow, fractured sliver of light. Ever since that bastard's blade tore through my left eye, everything on that side was just a heavy, throbbing void. Standing inside cell four, looking down at the massive piece of trash chained to the iron chair, the phantom itch in my missing socket flared up like liquid fire. But the pain didn't make me weak. It made me sharp.
The giant was shivering, his massive frame rattling the heavy iron links bolted into the concrete floor. He had his single remaining eye squeezed shut, his chest heaving under a stained, sweat-slicked shirt as he waited for the cold steel of my combat knife to pierce his brain. He expected a quick death. He thought a bullet or a sudden thrust would end the terror of staring at the ghost he had failed to kill.
He didn't know me at all. A quick death was a luxury reserved for men who died on the battlefield, not for a mercenary who tried to break the Sovereign's household.
