I allow my mask to disintegrate. The warriors watch wide-eyed as I form three small daggers from the metal.

Then I direct them to hover at each man’s throat.

“Rotting gods. You’re like a puppy,” growls Ostius as the men back away, forced to by the jagged ends of the metal. He turns to the warriors. “Is mian leis an draoi sibh a fhágáil go ciúin di.”

The Strength of the Few Chapter 51