A Discussion of Evil

"So, he really was dead?" Iskandar Khayon asked.

Sevatar nodded.

The stars hung low overhead, while the mechanical engine beneath them roared. All four wheels spun, spraying dust like shattered rain. Fierce wind brushed their faces, carrying the unique scents of the desert into their senses, where each was broken down into streams of information.

They sat in the rear of the massive vehicle, seat belts strapped around them, backs pressed against the walls as they stared at one another.

A War Hounds scout drove in the front. She was an exceptionally skilled driver, somehow making the harsh desert terrain feel as smooth as level ground.

They were expected to reach Barasto in another ten minutes.

"I thought it was merely my imagination," the Thousand Son said softly. "Good kill."

He had in fact used sorcery to conceal the sound of their conversation, yet he still spoke in a hushed voice, as though wary of creatures that did not exist in the mortal world.

Sevatar merely gave a cold smile in response.

"A good kill? He lived a full ten thousand years longer than I expected. Ten thousand years. A hundred centuries. I chased him like a stray dog, and the bastard was cunning beyond measure. He never left a trace. Yes, I found him many times, but only because he wanted me to find him. Nothing more."

"But he is dead," Khayon said with extraordinary calm. "And you killed him. That is enough."

Something about those words seemed to provoke Sevatar, making him frown.

He looked as though he had much to say, yet could not bring himself to say it. In the end, he merely shook his head, closed his mouth, and fell silent, returning to his expressionless state.

Khayon studied him for a while before slowly speaking.