Erulak read the proclamation twice, the jagged scrawl pressed deep into the parchment.
“All Myrddraal are to be executed by me until I get bored.”
The words themselves carried all the menace of a child waving a stick and declaring it a sword.
He tilted his pale head, eyeless gaze tracing the uneven strokes, and wondered whether the Dreadlord had written this before or after chewing on the crayon it was written in. The letters looked less like ink and more like the desperate smear of a mind too distracted by the flavor of red wax to bother with coherence.
A hiss escaped Erulak’s lipless mouth, the closest thing his kind came to laughter. The Lurk folded the proclamation carefully, as one might preserve a child’s first drawing, and slipped it away. Not out of obedience, but out of amusement. For in the shadows, the only thing more dangerous than fear was mockery and Erulak would carry this one like a dagger in the dark.