Valerian

You spat blood into the muck, struggling to move. The golden muck in your veins howled, burning your flesh. Your arm became a throbbing mass of pain, your fingers barely able to grip the sword.

“Die already,” you growled, turning around.

Valerian burst out of the bushes ten paces away. His face was a mess, his wounds healing as he walked. He didn't stand on ceremony: he unleashed a splatter of gray gloom, slamming you into a tree.

"I'm sick of running," the inquisitor croaked, pressing down on your chest with the force of a concrete slab. "Why the hell haven't you died by the bridge yet?"

The gold in your eyes flashed with a poisonous light:

• So that you suffer, bitch.

You thrust your right hand forward. A golden flash exploded blindly, like a malfunctioning firecracker. The air crackled, and the driftwood burst into flames. Valerian was thrown back, but he immediately jumped up. Gray power tightened like a cocoon around your throat.

"If you do that again," he shook you, "I'll chop off your arm at the elbow. I'll bring you your head in a sack, and the Council will thank you."

You grabbed his wrist with a burning palm. Valerian's skin began to smoke, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

— Try it. You were afraid they'd screw your head off for the lost artifact. Chop it.

You froze in the mud, breathing heavily. No dignity there—just two exhausted men and a hatred you could touch. Valerian silently slammed the back of your head against the trunk. The world went dark instantly.