Sword

He reached out with his left arm, and an attendant wretch ­waddled to his side on its knees. The slave made a simpering, choked sound, its lips quivering around the hilt of the sword sheathed in its throat. Its master took the blade’s grip in his clawed gauntlet, sparing its bearer the briefest of glances, which drew a gasp of elation from its bleeding lips.

With a single smooth motion, he drew the sword. Without the daemonic essence locked within the weapon to sustain it, the vassal’s abused flesh withered. It grew pale and ashen, and webs of dark veins branched out across its trembling face. The figure flicked his wrist in irritation and severed the slave’s head.

***

Lucius: The Faultless Blade, I.III