Lazarus couldn't believe it. His spear—his pride and symbol of dominance—was in his hands. His body trembled, not from exertion, but from a shame that coursed through him like a poison.
He had drawn his spear against a child. A boy who was less than a tenth of his age, a boy who had not surpassed the Wall, who hadn't even reached the Wall.
And yet, Lazarus had felt fear.
The moment Arthur's sword pressed against his astral energy, relentless and unyielding, a cold dread had crept into the Vampire Elder's chest. For a fleeting instant, he believed Arthur's blade might actually reach his throat.
The shame burned deeper. A Vampire Elder—an immortal warrior who had faced centuries of battle—forced to draw his spear against a child. It was unthinkable. Intolerable.
But it was necessary.
