Nairen

I lay on my back and looked at the grey sky.

The stone under my shoulder blade was more of a hindrance than the three idiots who'd decided to finish me off. The orc stood to the left, breathing too loudly and clutching his axe as if the strength in his fists was no longer his head. The elf had been holding the bowstring taut for too long. His fingers were shaking. The mage was silent, but his gaze kept flicking to my hands.

Gods... How bad. With opponents like these, I can't even die gracefully. I sighed, propped myself up on my elbows, and looked at them almost with resentment.

"Gentlemen, if you were planning an execution, where's the music? Where's the opening speech? Where's anyone with a sense of proportion?"

The orc growled.

— There. That's better. The emotion is there. It's weak, but I won't be picky.

I placed my palm on my chest and bowed as briefly as possible while lying on the ground.

— Nairen. One hundred and twenty-five years old. Today I am the victim. I ask you to love, fear, and not procrastinate.

The axe fell down. Finally.

I didn't move. Not because I couldn't make it. I just didn't want to ruin the moment prematurely. That split second was always the best part: the blow couldn't be stopped, death had already decided it had won, and my body hadn't even begun to respond yet.

The world has become slow.

The orc opened up on the right. The elf caught his breath too soon. The mage chose a pretty spell over a useful one. Blue fire, seriously? How tasteless. I was about to rise when I suddenly stopped.

Not out of fear. Not out of danger. Something inside just clicked the wrong way. As if the familiar game had momentarily malfunctioned.

I froze under the falling axe and slowly smiled.

• Hm.

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

• Now that's interesting.