“How?” Daruman demanded. “How are you here? You couldn’t have known!” Eithan hadn’t known. “I always know,” Eithan said. Armor flowed through the Way, black liquid slithering around him and covering him, seamless and smooth. The Mad King saw him protecting himself and struck. With his scythe. The Iteration split in half as he cut at the fabric of existence, but Eithan held out a hand. The slice in reality stopped exactly at the edge of his palm. Eithan laughed. “A poor choice of weapon.” Who could have more authority over Ozriel’s Scythe than Ozriel?
