Ozias remembered he liked singing—quietly, to himself—as his hands worked on the carving with diligent focus, making sure every movement was right. Woodwork was an art, one wrong stroke and you could ruin a masterpiece. Just like humans.
That human he had brought here, he was gone. He had felt others cross too, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter even that one of his wraiths had been taken, although that had been unexpected. All of them were inconsequential and their actions had little merit. People liked to struggle and start futile endeavors, thinking that if they worked hard enough or if they were persistent enough, they would succeed eventually. But some things were just out of their reach.
They were just humans, after all. They were too weak to stop him, no matter what he decide
