Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Herod’s snarl deepened as pain erupted from his leg, the boy’s fangs biting deep into muscle with a savage ferocity that sent shock waves through his frame—an unneeded reminder of his own mortality.

He was forced to the ground, and within a breath, the boy was atop him. He twisted sharply, grappling against Hasdrubal’s fierce hold, every inch of his body engaged in the dance, every muscle straining to defend vital points from the boy’s ravenous assault.

How dare you? Herod’s voice was a hiss of seething wrath, his arms coiling like iron around Hasdrubal’s thin frame, each syllable laced with venomous disbelief. How dare you, you disgusting whelp! The boy’s paw twisted at his jaw, and Herod aimed to crush it in his teeth, the taste of defiance sharp on his tongue. All that I have done, all that I have built—it was for you! I carved a kingdom from the dust, forged it with my own blood and will! And this— he choked, his gaze shifting to see the boy’s other paw gripping the wine, its crimson shimmer signaling Herod’s ruin.

Horror curled in his gut, a sickening recognition of what was intended, and with renewed desperation, he lashed out, raking claws across Hasdrubal’s flesh with an animalistic fury—throat, chest, face, eyes—there would be no sanctuary, no inch left unmarked by his wrath.

You think you can ever be rid of me, boy? Herod’s voice, though strained, surged with a dangerous fury, an edge of panic that he could not entirely suppress. The lion’s bared teeth twisted into a grim sneer. His strength was fading quickly, but so too was the boy's—he only need buy a little more time. You were made in my image. Kill me now but know this—with each breath you draw, it is my lungs that fill, with every pulse, it is my blood that flows within you.

Do you not see, Hasdrubal? You are bound to me, fettered by the very life I gifted you. Slay me, but I shall not die—no, my spirit will eclipse even death, woven into your bones, twisted into every thought that passes through your mind! His paws gripped the boy's head, slamming it into the stone wall. Once, twice.

A bitter laugh bubbled from his throat, spilling forth in defiance and madness, a sound that echoed through the chamber, haunting and unending.

Thrice.

Herod.

That was all that mattered. All that filled Machiavelli’s focus, sharpening his senses to a single, searing point. He could not hear Eset scream his name; the world beyond the next breath and the frantic thud of his heart was lost to him.

Herod.

That voice, dripping with poison.

Machiavelli did not register the streaks of blood smeared along the cavern wall, or the way it spilled down his face. The way his vision sparked like a thousand stars before his eyes with every hit.

Only The Abbot's foul mouth and how it would not stop spewing venom.

The bowl—clutched in his trembling paw—was brought to Herod’s lips, forced between them, spilling its contents with each gasp and sputter.

And he would hold his mouth shut and never let go.

Never, even as The Abbot foamed.

And writhed.

Shook, clawed, bucked.

Went still.