Rodrick understood.
From this moment forward, there was no way he could challenge Cassius—not in any meaningful sense.
The realization sank into him like a blade, cold and unyielding, as he stared at the blood-drenched figure of his son standing before him, Edmund's spine dangling from his hand like some grotesque trophy.
Why?
Because in a mere forty-minute gap, Cassius had accomplished the impossible. He'd traveled to the Wyvern Mountains—a journey that took half a day to and fro on horseback, even at a relentless gallop—and slaughtered over a hundred of the Spineless Bandits in what must have been a handful of minutes.
And not just killed them—butchered them, in the most brutal, inhuman way imaginable, tearing their spines from their bodies with his bare hands.
Then he'd returned, unscathed, without so much as a scratch on his back, looking as casual as if he'd gone for a stroll in the gardens instead of orchestrating a massacre.
