He let out a breath of relief, and someone clapped him on the shoulder. He assumed it was one of the bridge crew until, with a chill, he realized his Presence hadn’t detected anyone next to him. Slowly, the old Silverlord turned his head to the right. Ozriel stood next to him in black armor, white hair flowing behind him, a satisfied smile on his face. “So Daruman told you I was weak, did he?” Gerravon closed his eyes and remembered his life. “Weaker,” the Reaper said. “He should have said weaker.”
