Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

What in heaven's name happened to your neck? Eira asked sharply, her capable paws brushing aside Hasdrubal's fur to reveal the bruised and battered flesh beneath, hues of green and purple mottling his skin. Her cold brown eyes met his opal gaze with a piercing scrutiny. She shook her head in disapproval. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into when you’re not lying here bothering me, but I suggest you limit it, at least until you're healed.

There was no warmth in her tone—only the straightforward practicality of a doctor intent on her patient’s survival. She had no use for kindness where this one was concerned. They’d never make it back to Godsmouth if he kept injuring himself like this. Perhaps that was his intention. Her jaw clenched, mouth tightening into a thin, stern line.

And for your information, the girl you were supposed to protect? You failed. She’s been injured. Quite seriously, I might add.

Machiavelli’s breath hitched, but he did not answer. Instead, his gaze fell, drifting toward some far-off, unremarkable spot on the floor.

Safiya injured? A sharp, biting cold began to coil in his stomach, twisting it into tight, nauseating spirals. His paws curled instinctively, nails digging into the soft pine needles and leaves that made up his bedding, For a moment, the world around him dulled, narrowing into a suffocating tunnel. Eira’s words rang in his ears, echoing over and over until they drowned out every other sound.

Oh gods above, he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, ragged and thin. The words tumbled from his lips without thought and Machiavelli swallowed hard, his throat dry. His pulse pounded in his temples. He felt sick—sick to his core.

I... His voice cracked, a tremor of guilt threading through the sound. I did everything I could.

But it hadn’t been enough.

The bitter truth sat like poison in his veins, each heartbeat spreading the venom further. He could feel it—the failure, the futility of it all—burning in his gut like fire. His throat tightened, choking on words he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

He had promised. Promised to protect Safiya, to keep her safe—and now, she lay injured because of him. It didn’t matter that he had fought. It didn’t matter that he had given everything he had. In the end, the result was the same: he had failed.

Eira’s ears pressed flat against her skull, her whole body bristling with a barely contained fury.

Don’t you dare, she hissed, her voice sharp as a whip crack. Don’t you dare, not for a second, turn this into some kind of pity party for yourself.  That girl is out there, bleeding, because of you, and you’ve got the gall to make this about you? How dare you.

You think you did all you could? she scoffed, the sound thick with disgust, her lips curling as she spoke. You could have died—that, Hasdrubal, would have been all you could do. That would’ve been justice. And instead, here you are, alive and well enough to whine.

Her eyes, cold and blazing with pain, dared him to challenge her.

Machiavelli trembled beneath the weight of her fury, the raw edge of her words cutting through him like a blade. His muddied ears flattened back against his head, drooping as if they could shield him from the scorching judgment she unleashed.

Slowly, his gaze sank, eyes falling away from hers, unable to bear the searing intensity of her blow. His shoulders hunched inward, posture folding in on itself as if he might disappear into the earth beneath him. He clenched his teeth, shame clawing at his insides.

You're right, The dog whispered, the words, flimsy and inadequate, barely escaping his lips. I'm sorry.

Sorry isn't good enough. Eira’s breath came in hot, ragged huffs as she pinned Hasdrubal with a stare as cold as the mountain wind. Sorry isn't even in the realm of being good enough.

Her tail lashed, the tension in her every movement speaking volumes as she ranted. Moroi or not, you’re also as manipulative as the day is long, selfish to your core, she declared, her Southern drawl thick with emotion, and I dare say, from what I’ve seen, I don’t believe you’ve ever truly given "everything you could" in regard to anything at all.

It felt oddly satisfying, letting out the torrent of pent-up emotion that had been festering for far too long. But the pleasure was fleeting, especially when all Hasdrubal did was flinch and draw into himself like a scolded child. That alone stoked the fires of her frustration—what relief was there in this, if all he did was shrink away? It grated on her nerves, more than she cared to admit—both his pitiful response and the unwelcome flicker of guilt that stirred in her chest for yelling at him. Him!

With an exasperated snort, she turned away from him, unable to look at him any longer. You said you were tired and achy, didn’t you? she asked curtly, her tone clipped and irritated.

The sound of her pacing filled the air, the sharp tap of her claws against the stone, her breath coming in angry huffs. Each lash of her tail cut through the silence like a whip, slicing through the dog's frayed nerves.

Eira's final words caught him off guard, however, breaking through the fog swirling in his head. Tired. Achy. Her words weren’t gentle, nor they weren’t filled with that same biting anger. The shift in tone surprised him, and he swallowed hard, throat tight. For a moment, he could only sit there, blinking as he attempted to process what she had said.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. I... yes, he whispered, his voice fragile, uncertain. I did.

Eira took a slow, measured breath, steadying herself before facing Hasdrubal once more. She reached for his pulse, counting the beats with an expression that revealed little beyond professional restraint.

After a few moments, she withdrew, shaking her head. You're fit as a fiddle, 'side from that leg of yours, she said evenly, though a flicker of doubt passed through her eyes. A suspicion was beginning to take root in her heart, that this, too, was just another one of his tricks, buying time that wasn't his to claim.

Her gaze hardened, her tone cool as she straightened herself. We’ll be packing up and moving camp in a week’s time. If you're not up to traveling by then, you'll be carried to our new site, same as you were brought here. And let me make one thing crystal clear—if you think playing sick will keep you from heading back to Godsmouth, you're gravely mistaken. Her cold, unwavering gaze met his, leaving no room for doubt. I can offer you something to dull the pain, but not a thing more.

I’m not playing sick, he said at last, his voice low, as though he were speaking more to the empty air than to her. Machiavelli's eyes flicked toward the ground, toward the scattered leaves and soil beneath his paws, before rising again to meet her hard gaze. But I don’t suppose that matters, does it?

There was no bitterness in his tone, only a weary acceptance. He knew the game. He knew how she saw him. A liar. A manipulator. A beast who had done unspeakable things.

However... I’ll walk. I won’t need to be carried, he added after a pause, the words coming out slower, softer, as if each one was being torn from him. There was no point in fighting it, no point in pretending there was an escape any longer. Perhaps divine retribution had come at last, not in the form of Herod's death, but the dog's own.

The mountain woman offered no reply, merely turning her back to him as she set about the task of gathering the plants she would need—fennel, rosemary, and sage—each a familiar companion in her healing arts. Yet, as her paws reached for the herbs, a flicker of hesitation crept in, a dark thought threading its way through her mind. Doubt had begun to weave itself into her heart, and here was an opportunity to dispel it.

Her paw moved, settling instead upon a different selection, one that felt heavier with consequence.

Here.

She did not meet his gaze.

Machiavelli eyed the plants with suspicion, his gaze narrowing as he noted her moment of hesitation, the sudden shift of her paw. The bundle’s components seemed harmless enough—nothing immediately recognizable as poison—however, that didn't necessarily mean they were safe to consume either.

For a fleeting moment, he deliberated, weighing the risk against the uncertainty. Yet, in the end, the calculation seemed simple: whatever she offered could hardly be worse than the horrors Herod had subjected him to, nor could it rival the more questionable substances he'd consumed in the past.

It didn’t take long before the plants began working their magic. No ill effects, sharp pangs, or foaming at the mouth—not yet, at least. If anything, a curious sense of calm began to bloom within him, like the slow unfurling of a cat in the sun. He felt... pleasant? Yes, pleasant. Perhaps even good. Very good. The ever-present ache that gnawed at his body seemed to melt away, dissipating like mist in the morning light.

He let his head sink lazily onto his paws, casting a glance up at Eira with wide, opalescent eyes—now soft, almost doe-like—that shimmered like molten glass in the reflected light. I think you gave me too much, my darling Eira, he murmured, a crooked smile tugging at the corners of his lips, nearly wide enough to be called a grin.

Hasdrubal’s breathing steadied as the plants began to take hold, their effect evident. Eira watched in silence, unease settling in her chest. A part of her felt a sickening twist inside—disbelief in what she had done, in the steps she had taken. She told herself it was necessary, it had to be. If he was lying, the malpractice wouldn't matter, but if, just if, the story he clung to held any truth at all...

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. She had to know—there was no turning back now.

Finally, she met his gaze, those unsettling, cryptid eyes staring back at her.
What happened that night?

There was no need for clarification. Heat pressed against the dog's skull, thick and suffocating, a heavy fog creeping through his mind. His thoughts had become a muddled mess, swirling sluggishly beneath the weight of the plant’s influence. Yet the numbness it promised was a cruel illusion—it dulled his senses but couldn’t touch the sharp, jagged grief twisting inside him. That ache was beyond any remedy.

He tried to steady himself, inhaling a shaky breath. His eyes flicked up, searching the Snowmother's face. Her cold gaze probed his own, demanding answers he didn’t know how to give. Her distress was clear, but there was nothing he could say to ease it. He wanted to—desperately. This, of course, however, was impossible.

Machi's paw stretched out, the grin fading into nothingness. What replaced it was raw, unguarded despair—deep, gnawing, and utterly vulnerable.

We... The thoughts in his head were thick, slow, like trying to claw through wet earth. He swallowed, and tried again, We made plans... plans to run away. To find my mother, and return to your clan. Maybe... start a family. He winced, a paw curling into his chest as if that would somehow stop the pain. But there was someone… we were interrupted… we had to run.

The floodgates opened. Images from that night flashed through his mind—too fast, too vivid, each one cutting deeper than the last. His heart raced, a rising panic filling his chest. He had tried so hard to bury this, to push it away, but now, the plants forced him to confront it all, to once again relive the pain he had tried so desperately to forget.

His breath hitched, and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep his voice steady. It was no use. The next morning, he continued, Herod sent me away. And when I came back, you were gone. And, he stopped, his words faltering, the name lodged in his throat like a shard of glass. His vision blurred, and the room around him seemed to close in. He blinked furiously, willing the tears to stay back. His paws shook, and before he knew it, the first tear spilled over, sliding down his cheek.

Juno… Machi's voice cracked, and the dam broke. He was gone too.

The dog's chest tightened, and the breath he had been holding came out in a ragged sob. His paws flew to his face, trying to hide the tears that spilled over in great waves.

He was gone too… he whispered again, his voice barely audible, the words catching in his throat, breaking on his lips. It sounded so small, so hollow—his voice, his heart, his entire being, all unraveling.

She hadn't expected this—this torrent of grief, raw and overwhelming in its perfect mirror of her own. Her jaw locked tight, but it did nothing to stop the creeping tendrils of dread winding their way through her chest, twisting in places she’d long thought numb.

The serum had done its job—too well. She had wanted answers, yes, but not this. Not this flood of sorrow that filled the space between them, drowning them both. She’d expected him to confess. Expected a vile villain's monologue where he owned up to the things he’d done, and set her doubts to rest. And she would finally get the closure she so desperately needed. She would say to herself, "How silly I was to worry! I was right all along." And she would feel oh so justified in her hatred—her loathing.

But instead, all she was left with was this—the broken, shattered remnants of the boy she once knew, laid bare before her. He was not the proud, terrible creature she had come to despise. No, he was something else entirely now—fragile, shattered, and far too mortal.

Herod... She breathed the name like a curse, like something vile on her tongue. She knew. She already knew. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her pulse loud in her ears. She hated him. Hated the sound of his name. Hated the way it tasted. But most of all, she hated the way she had let her grief cloud her vision—let it twist everything until she didn’t know which way was up.

Her throat clenched, but she pressed on, pressed on because she had no choice. The words came out strangled, desperate.

Was it him, Hasdrubal? Did Herod—?

Her voice cracked. Eira reached out, her paw trembling as it found Hasdrubal’s, cold and shaking beneath her touch. She held her breath.

Waiting.