Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Be the First to the Feast, Let's Choke on the Past

Machiavelli’s awareness flickered like an ember smothered by ash, flaring briefly before it was snuffed out again, slipping in and out of consciousness during the journey. Sensations came and went in flashes—rough paws, the sharp jostle of movement, the whisper of cold air against his face— but it was all fragmented, slipping from him like water through his paws. Every time the fog began to lift from his mind, dragging him toward wakefulness, his consciousness was snuffed again, plunging him back into sleep. Each brief moment of clarity vanished before he could piece together the shadows of his surroundings, leaving him disoriented and helpless.

Now, as he awoke once more, the haze that clung to his senses slowly began to fade, but the heaviness in his limbs remained. The dog's eyes fluttered open, revealing a world dimly lit by soft, dancing light, only—

Machiavelli bit down hard, his teeth clenching as a wave of nausea rolled over him, sharp and sudden. His stomach churned violently, and he hunched forward, gagging dryly, body heaving with the effort.

His limbs trembled uncontrollably, weak beneath him. A cold sweat broke out along his fur, slicking it to his skin as his body shuddered, wracked with a tremor he couldn’t quell. His heart raced wildly, thrumming in his chest like a trapped bird, desperate and frantic, as if trying to beat its way out. His vision blurred, swirling with dark shapes that danced just beyond the edges of his sight, twisting in and out of focus, taunting him with flickers of movement that weren’t there.

Gods he felt awful. How long had he been out this time?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, the stale air of the cave clawing at his throat as he coughed, raising a shaky forepaw to wipe his mouth. His head throbbed, the pulsing ache a dull roar in his skull that made it nearly impossible to think. He had to get home. To the garden. He needed it.

@Herod.

The scent hit him next, oppressive in its abundance— the air, the messy foliage he had slept upon, the fibers of his coat. He expected, almost instinctively, to taste the bitterness of herbs forced into his mouth again, or to feel the cold press of the elder's paw. His skin prickled with phantom touches, but...nothing came. Just the steady drip of water from some far-off crack in the ceiling and the occasional whisper of wind through the rocks. The trailing sensations along his skin just that— phantoms.

He was alone.

The realization was slow to settle in. Cautious disbelief colored his thoughts, and for a moment, he simply lay there, unsure if this newfound solitude was real. But the stillness was undeniable, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Machiavelli wasn’t under the Abbot's immediate watch. His senses sharpened in cautious disbelief as he blinked groggily, working to clear the lingering fog from his vision.

The walls were rough and jagged, glimmering faintly as golden webs of some unknown mineral ran through the rock. The reflected light from those veins shimmered like liquid sunlight, pooling on the walls in ethereal patterns that danced with his breath. The air was cool against his fur, a sharp contrast to the heat of his wounds, smelling strongly of night creatures and old forgotten bones. Yet faintly— fresh air— somewhere nearby.

A cave. He was in a cave that was not Muat-Riya.

Muat-Riya. Safiya. Was she safe? Had she managed to escape their attackers and make it to Akashingo? He pictured her, small and fierce, wrapped in the protective folds of the capital’s walls. Maybe she was curled up somewhere, resting peacefully after the horrifying ordeal, or perhaps training with the other mazoi, her spirit as unbreakable as always. The image brought him comfort, but it also fueled his desire to stand, to move, to do anything at all.

Machiavelli tested his weight on his forepaw, wincing at the soreness but finding it bearable. His hind leg, however, was another matter entirely. Pain radiated from the limb, sharp and sickening, a deep, throbbing ache that brought on a second wave of nausea. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up with considerable effort, leg curling uselessly against his stomach.

The fresh air grew stronger as he limped forward, its scent cutting through the staleness of the cave, guiding him toward the entrance like a beacon. The golden veins in the walls shimmered brighter with each step, casting warm streaks of light across the uneven stone floor. It was there, just ahead— the mouth of the cave, glowing faintly with the soft light of the outside world.

But as he rounded the final bend, the scent hit him like a wall—thick, pungent, unmistakable.

Godsmouth wolves. At the entrance.

Machiavelli halted, his heart skipping a beat. He had not truly expected to find freedom so easily, but the reality of their presence still sent disappointment crashing over him like a wave.

He scuttled back into the shadows, mind ticking in a desperate search for a plan to distract them and make his escape. But it was too late; pawsteps echoed down the passageway, and Machiavelli was met face-to-face with an unknown wolf.

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The wolf’s voice quivered with reverence as he stepped back, giving Hasdrubal space as if the very air around the man demanded respect. His eyes, wide and gleaming in the dim light, reflected a mixture of awe and anxiety.

Oh, Prophet, he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, bowing his head as though unworthy to stand so near. He took another cautious step back, careful not to crowd the man as he regained his bearings. You... you were not expected to awaken so soon. There was a tremble in his tone, not from fear but from sheer admiration.

The wolf’s ears twitched nervously. The Abbot asked me to ensure that no one entered—no one disturbed you while you rested. He—he said you had been attacked, badly wounded. That you needed time to heal. But now that you are awake... His voice trailed off for a moment as he gathered himself, almost giddy with the significance of what was happening.

The Abbot is just ahead, he continued. He will want to see you at once. Come with me, Prophet. With that, the wolf turned and began to lead the way, his movements careful, respectful, as though guiding a deity from the sacred shadows of the cave into the light.

He glanced back once, his tail wagging slightly, a flicker of excitement passing through him as he dared to speak more personally. I... I do not know if you remember me, Prophet. The last time I saw you, you were just a little thing, barely more than a pup. But you—you gave me advice. You told me to leave my pack and begin anew. I took your words to heart. I left, and I... well, I met my husband. We have been very happy. His voice grew wistful, filled with a quiet joy. I owe that happiness to you. When the Abbot found me, saying you were in trouble... I knew I had to come. It was my honor—no, it was my duty—to aid you in return.

They moved through the cave’s mouth, the evening light casting long shadows as the wolf spoke again, this time with a note of sadness. I heard you became ill about a year ago. Some dreadful disease, I believe. It spread and took many of your attendants. His voice wavered with sympathy. I... I am so sorry to hear it. Such misfortune is not your fault, Prophet. Illness chooses no favorites. No one blames you for it. I am certain of that.

He was quiet then as they rounded the jagged rock formation, revealing Herod at the tree line, surrounded by his loyal aides, his figure outlined in the dying light of the day. The gilded threads of his fur caught the sun’s last rays, casting an almost ethereal glow upon him, as though the heavens themselves sought to anoint him with their fading splendor. He paced, seemingly making notes and giving orders. At the sight of the approaching pair, a single, graceful motion of his silvering paw dismissed them.

Did you think about what I said, Hasdrubal? His posture straightened to its full height. His golden eyes fixed upon Hasdrubal, piercing through the fading light.

Come, let us speak, he continued, his tone firm yet carrying an undercurrent of something softer, something almost inviting. He gestured toward the edge of the forest, his voice slipping into a more intimate cadence. We will go somewhere more private.

The world beyond these walls is cruel and unforgiving, Hasdrubal. You have seen its worst. You have felt its sting. He paused, turning to face him with eyes that gleamed like molten gold. But here, with us, with me, you have purpose. You have power.

Herod leaned in, his gaze locking with Hasdrubal’s, those opalescent eyes shimmering with something unspoken, a tension that rippled in the space between them. Do you not grow weary of running? Of fighting a battle you cannot win? His voice softened, his words a silken snare meant to pull him back into the fold. You belong here, at my side. At the heart of Godsmouth.

He leaned forward, placing a paw upon the boy's own. His eyes traveled over the younger man, lingering for a breath on the soft curls that framed his neck, before pulling away, resuming his slow walk into the gathering shadows of the forest.

And then, as they moved deeper into the trees, Herod's voice dropped lower, becoming a whisper that only Hasdrubal could hear. He glanced over his shoulder, ensuring that none of the camp's lingering eyes or ears were near. But, if you still refuse to see reason— his voice now carried a note of warning, the warmth slipping away like the fading light, I will have no choice but to indulge Elveera's wish to keep you tied down.

His body moved closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming, wrapping around Hasdrubal like a cloak. Herod leaned in, the warmth of his breath brushing against the younger man’s skin as he pressed his nose to the scarred curve of Hasdrubal's neck, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of that which he had long been denied. Although, I don't suppose I would mind seeing you bound.

Prophet. The word, dripping with reverence, rolled off the wolf’s tongue, trembling with devotion. Machiavelli almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Prophet? Oh, the poor fool had no idea. He didn’t know how far the dog before him had fallen from that pedestal—how far he had tumbled from the heights of divinity. But Machiavelli didn’t correct him, didn’t bother to strip the wolf of his illusions. What would be the point? People believed what was easiest, what was most convenient for them to accept. The truth was often too heavy, too ugly to bear, and so they chose to see only what they wanted. Challenging that would be a waste of breath. It was easier—kinder, even—to let them worship their false gods in peace.

The wolf’s gratitude flowed like a river, unending and earnest. His voice, an unyielding murmur of praise, wove together memories that had long since faded for Machiavelli, though they clearly burned bright in the wolf’s mind. Machiavelli couldn’t remember him—not really—but he had seen hundreds like him. He could still recall those moments of fleeting power, when his words were law and lives bent to his will with just a whisper. The faces blurred together now, a crowd of wide-eyed believers staring up at him with hope igniting their gaze. Once, that hope had tasted sweet, a heady elixir of power. Now, it curdled in his gut. He wasn’t a savior. He never had been.

The air shifted as they stepped into the light. The sun’s final rays spilled across the world, casting the sky in a soft wash of gold and burnt orange, as if the heavens themselves were on fire. Machiavelli breathed in deeply, the burst of fresh air filling his lungs with a relief so intense it was almost painful. The coolness of it swept away the staleness of the cave, and for a heartbeat, he was more grateful for that breath of air than he had ever been for any lover he’d taken into his arms. But the moment was short-lived.

The opal eyes locked onto the golden figure like a magnet drawn to iron. Herod. He stood, bathed in the sun’s dying glow, the perfect picture of power and control, his frame gleaming like some celestial being set down among mortals. He had always been that—an untouchable force—everything Machiavelli had once thought he needed to survive, to thrive.


And now he felt sick.


The wolf by his side gave him an encouraging nod, completely oblivious to the silent plea in Machiavelli’s eyes. He didn’t want to go with Herod. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the man, let alone follow him into the trees where no one could see them. The urge to run—to flee back into the shadows of the cave—seized him, but Machiavelli was no fool; choice had never been a luxury in Herod’s world.

Steeling himself, Machiavelli forced his feet to move, each step forward a battle against the tremor that threatened to shake him apart. His body ached, his wounds still fresh, but that was nothing compared to the sickness twisting in his gut as he limped toward Herod. He was led into the trees, the golden light fading to a dusky gray as the forest swallowed them whole, the distance from the camp growing with each step.

As Herod spoke, his voice as smooth and commanding as ever, Machiavelli’s mind wandered, seeking refuge in anything but the present. He remembered a night, months ago, spent beneath a similar swath of trees, but with someone else. @Senmut. The memory was a haze, a brief flicker of warmth in the coldness that had settled over him. For a moment, he allowed himself to dwell on it, to grasp at the fraying edges of hope, but even that was beginning to waver.

Herod spoke on endlessly, though the words barely registered in Machiavelli’s mind. He didn’t need to hear them. He knew the script by heart. Herod always knew what to say and how to frame his words like a lifeline, offering salvation while tightening the noose.

He was jolted back to the present with Herod's touch upon him, and it took all of his strength to not pull away, instead only quietly meeting the golden eyes. He was grateful for the near instant reprieve, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief as they continued walking.

And now Herod spoke of binding him again. Of Elveera’s wish to see him restrained, controlled like some wayward beast. Anger flared in the half-breed's chest. He wished to speak to her, to make her understand. If only he could get through. But then, Herod was beside him, close—too close. The world shrank. His throat tightened, memories flooding back with sickening clarity.

Machiavelli pulled back, just enough to break the contact, his breath coming faster, harder. He didn’t dare meet Herod’s eyes—he couldn’t. Not yet. If he looked, he knew what he’d see: that same calculating gaze, confident that Machiavelli was still his. Still the boy Herod had shaped, molded, broken.

I don’t think that will be needed, he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Good. Herod smiled as he pulled away, giving Hasdrubal a firm pat on the shoulder as though to seal an unspoken agreement, his satisfaction apparent. Good. I am glad to hear that.

He nodded, his expression settling into one of mild amusement as he turned his attention toward the inevitable confrontation with Elveera. I shall speak with Snowbird then. She may not like the idea, but I am certain she will come to see that you have learned your lesson. There should be no further trouble in bringing you back to Godsmouth.

Herod's tone shifted suddenly, adopting the breezy cadence of one who had just brushed the dust off his hands after a job well done. Well then, he announced, the glint of decision in his eyes, Let us proceed to dinner. I imagine you are hungry, and the others will be eager to see you. Rest assured, you will not be required to prepare the meal this evening, he chuckled, the sound rich and deep.

No, tonight you shall dine, not serve. With that, he turned, striding forward, a silent expectation lingering in the air for the boy to follow, just as he had always done.

Machiavelli didn’t flinch when Herod’s hand clapped down on his shoulder, though the touch made his muscles coil, tight as a wound spring. The smile he forced onto his lips felt brittle, thin, as though it might crack under the strain. To dinner, then, he rasped, throat dry. He swallowed hard, trying to smooth out the edges. Dine, not serve. How kind.

Herod’s command lingered in the air, silent but clear as though it had been spoken aloud. Follow. And so Machiavelli did, his dove-white paws crunching softly over the carpet of dried leaves and twigs beneath them. The forest whispered around him, the sounds of twilight filling the spaces between their footsteps. Shadows stretched long and low across the path, the last remnants of daylight painting the sky in dusky hues of violet and amber. The scent of pine mingled with the earth, but none of it touched Machiavelli’s senses as it should have.

His mind was elsewhere, tangled in the past, tied to the man walking just a few steps ahead. He’d learned long ago how to pretend, how to mask his thoughts behind a smile, how to bide his time. He was good at that, wasn’t he? He’d been playing this game his entire life, and for now, that was the role he would continue to play.

Just long enough.

Long enough for Herod to drop his guard. Long enough to gather his strength. Long enough to escape. He let that thought simmer in the back of his mind, warming him like a flame. He could endure this, endure him, for a little while longer. After all, Herod had provided a convenient opportunity, hadn’t he? A chance to heal, to eat, in relative safety—two luxuries Machiavelli could not afford to ignore. Let Herod think he had won, think he had reclaimed his lost Prophet. Machiavelli would play his part, wear the mask. For now.

His mind drifted briefly to Eira. They had been close once, and he found himself wondering if she could be convinced to leave with him when the time came—to break free of the web they both were caught in. She was sharp—she must have noticed the cracks in whatever lies Herod had spun.

But that was for later. Right now, he needed to focus on surviving the present. He would smile when Herod smiled, nod when Herod spoke, and eat the meal set before him like a good guest. He would regain his strength, piece by piece, until he could escape.

The Prophet had returned to Godsmouth.

The brittle smile Hasdrubal wore—forced, fragile, like glass that might shatter at the slightest touch—did not escape Herod’s keen, watchful eyes. How amusing it was to see the boy still clinging to his defiance, still attempting to play the games he thought so clever. Herod’s lip curled ever so slightly, a shadow of a smile, for he knew all too well the dance of deception that Hasdrubal believed he was executing with finesse. Ah, yes, the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his gait—each movement betraying the frail mask he wore. Did the boy truly believe his meager façade could fool him? Did he not know that Herod had watched over him, shaped him, since his earliest days?

To dinner, then, Hasdrubal rasped, his voice tight with the weight of forced compliance. The strain of the words was palpable, a thin veneer of control wrapped around his despair. Herod let the faintest trace of amusement flicker across his features, an indulgent smile, the kind one might offer a child attempting to outwit his elder.

Good. Let him think himself in control. The old man had not exhausted his arsenal yet.

Each step brought them closer to the heart of the campsite, where the loyal creatures of Godsmouth awaited. The scent of the banquet lingered in the cool air—honeyed meats and fragrant wines, seasoned with spices from distant lands.

As they reached the clearing, the elder quickly called over one of his attendants, whispering something into their ear. After his command had been given, and the canine disappeared into the camp, Herod climbed a jagged outcropping, perching atop it. His gaze swept over the assembly—his ever-loyal disciples, the creatures who had bound themselves to the will of Godsmouth, to his will. As they realized his presence, they turned toward him as one, their eyes wide with reverence, their expressions expectant. The camp had fallen into a hush, the only sound the whispering breeze that stirred the forest around them.

Herod straightened, his figure towering in the dim light. My brothers and sisters, he called, his words rolling like thunder over the clearing, Our Prophet has awoken.

He paused, allowing the significance of the moment to settle into the hearts of his followers, watching as their gazes shifted to Hasdrubal, wide-eyed with awe and reverence. The murmurs of the crowd began to rise, a wave of whispered relief and joy that swept through them.

Herod allowed the moment to linger, then bowed his head, a gesture of solemnity, of reverence for the gods above. The crowd followed suit, their heads lowering in silent prayer.

When he lifted his head once more, his eyes gleamed with a cold, calculated fire. We thank the gods above for his safety, Herod declared, his voice resounding with the reverence of a priest. After he was attacked by those who would see him destroyed, he has been delivered safely back into our fold. We thank Elveera for her hard work in restoring him to his full health.

The crowd erupted into hushed exclamations, their praise rippling throughout the gathered mass. Herod let them stir for a moment before he raised a paw, commanding silence once again.

My friends, Herod continued, his voice softening, tonight, we praise the gods. Tonight, we feast.

The lion continued to watch the gathering for a lingering moment before climbing down from his perch, taking his place at the boy's side once again. Come, he murmured, I will show you to your place. A meal has been made especially for you.

He followed Herod’s movements with a detached stare, watching the lion climb atop the outcropping like some self-ordained king, basking in the adoration of his loyal dogs. The murmurs of worship rose like a low hum, insect-like in its persistence, their faces turned toward Herod as if he had just returned from hanging the moon.

And when those same eyes, bright with adoration, shifted to him—their Prophet—Machiavelli felt the weight of their gaze settle over him like a suffocating shroud. His pulse quickened, a bitter taste creeping up the back of his throat.

With a smile as brittle as the autumn leaves crunching beneath his feet, he forced out the words, a prayer on a dying breath:

Praise the gods.

When Herod, satisfied with the crowd’s adulation, finally descended from his perch, rejoining him with that ever-watchful gaze, the crowd's murmurs grew softer. Thank you, Machiavelli replied, his voice soft, though his throat felt dry. I'm sure it will be wonderful. His stomach churned. He followed after Herod, not unaware of how the crowd parted like the Red Sea as they approached, their heads bowed in silent reverence, watching with awe as the Prophet was led to his place.

He was led to a seat of honor, a raised outcropping above the throng where he could watch the crowd—or perhaps, where the crowd could watch him. He caught the scent of fish and, for the briefest of moments, a wave of relief washed over him. At least it was something recognizable, something safe. For a moment, he almost let his guard down, almost allowing himself the comfort of normalcy.

But then it was set before him, and his gaze fell upon the garnish—three buds, small and unassuming, laid in a perfectly straight line atop the pale meat. Their vibrant, scarlet hue was unmistakable, the same kind he grew within the confines of his secret garden, nestled in the shadows of Muat-riya.

The sight of them sent a cold shiver down his spine, and the small, fleeting comfort he had felt was quickly drowned by a wave of dread. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the buds, his thoughts spiraling. Of course, they were there. Of course, Herod knew. It wasn’t like Machiavelli’s need for them had simply appeared out of nowhere. It had been cultivated, like everything else. Another thread in the web Herod had woven around him, another subtle reminder of the control that still lingered, no matter how far Machiavelli thought he had run.

Machiavelli’s paw twitched ever so slightly, and for a moment, he could only stare dumbly at the meal before him, his mind whirling. Thank you for the meal, it's very... thoughtful. However I'm afraid I cannot bring myself to eat at the moment. He forced his gaze to lift, meeting Herod’s eyes, and pushed the plate away gently.

Oh, dear, Herod tutted, seating himself before his own meal. Is it not to your liking? he inquired, the mockery in his tone so subtle, so faint, that it could almost be mistaken for sincerity.

The meal set before Hasdrubal had been crafted with care, the scent of roasted meats and delicate herbs rising into the night air like incense from an altar. Each dish, arranged with meticulous precision, was an offering fit for a king—a banquet designed to both nourish and ensnare. Herod gestured toward the feast with a languid wave of his paw, as though the abundance of it were nothing more than a trifle to be dismissed.

It was made with your tastes in mind, he murmured, eyes flicking to the disciple who had delivered the food. I will speak with the chef, and ensure you will enjoy the next meal. His nails drummed lightly against the stone's edge, a rhythmic tapping that matched the steady cadence of his voice.

However, I am afraid they are hungry, and await their Prophet’s blessing. They will not eat until you have taken the first bite. Herod leaned back slightly, gesturing toward the assembled crowd, the same crowd whose eyes were still fixed on the Prophet with unwavering devotion. I must implore you to try, for their sake, he said with a soft sigh, his gaze shifting back to Hasdrubal.

Machiavelli’s gaze lingered on the dish before him, the conflicting sensations rising in his chest like a tide threatening to drown him. His opalescent eyes flicked subtly from the intricately arranged plate to Herod, his stomach twisting in a strange blend of hunger and revulsion. He was nearly ravenous—the aroma of the herbs, the fresh fish, the scarlet buds, called to him with the seductive allure of a siren's song. Yet another part of him recoiled, as though the meal before him were nothing but rotten meat masquerading as something fine.

For a fleeting moment, disgust and deference warred in his chest, the emptiness in his stomach clawing for satisfaction, and he prepared to bring the plate toward himself, but just as his paw began to move, a voice—a sweet, soft, entirely unexpected voice—broke through the tension.

If The Prophet is not feeling well, he should rest, came the gentle words, delivered by the young wolf who had seated Machiavelli, offering him a reassuring smile. Everyone will understand, with all that has befallen him.

Machiavelli froze, his paw lowering slowly to the ground. He hadn’t anticipated the interruption, nor the sudden outpouring of what felt almost like genuine concern. His gaze shifted to meet the girl’s eyes for a brief moment, and though his heart quickened, his expression remained unreadable. A sliver of relief crept into his bones.

With a nod, he rose from his place, drawing himself to his full height as he addressed the gathering below. His voice, though fatigued, still carried the smooth, honeyed resonance that had once commanded the respect of a crowd much like this one. My children, he called, his words flowing like velvet over the hushed assembly, I find myself weary and must retire to my chambers for the night. I bid you—eat, drink, and be merry in my stead.

The faint murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the gathering as his shattered-glass gaze flickered briefly to Herod, their eyes meeting in a fleeting moment of silent exchange. But Machiavelli did not waver; instead, he offered a subtle nod of thanks to the young attendant, his expression softening ever so slightly as he turned.

With as graceful a leap as could be managed, he descended from the outcropping, the cool air brushing his piebald coat as he moved. His heart still pounded beneath the surface, and though his expression remained composed, there was a knot of tension that twisted and tightened in his chest.

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Herod’s expression darkened, his features hardening into something cold and unforgiving. His lips, once curled with faint amusement, tightened into a thin, unyielding line as his gaze shifted from the impudent wolf who had interrupted, to Hasdrubal. His golden eyes glimmered with a mix of displeasure and something far more dangerous—disappointment.

The boy had claimed he would not need to be bound, that he could navigate the delicate tightrope of obedience and survival without the chains Herod had so generously allowed him to remain free of. Yet, here, laid bare before the congregation, was the test—and Hasdrubal, in his arrogance, had stumbled.

Beneath the thin veil of calm, Herod’s paw clenched, nails digging into the stone beneath him with enough force to leave deep, jagged grooves. The stone did not resist him, nor would Hasdrubal. Not for long.

Excuse me, Herod hissed to the young wolf, his voice a low, dangerous murmur, the kind that silenced even the most reckless of creatures. He leaped down from the rock face, his eyes never once leaving the boy’s retreating form as he strode after Hasdrubal.

The merriment of the pack faded into the background, swallowed by the cool, damp echo of the cave’s walls. Here, in this secluded hollow, there would be no interruptions, no curious eyes to witness what was about to unfold. A chill crept through the darkness, but it was nothing compared to the cold fury that radiated from Herod like an unseen flame.

As soon as they were safely ensconced within the cave’s dim recesses, Herod rounded on Hasdrubal with a sudden, predatory swiftness that belied his old age. His paw shot out, slamming into the stone wall beside the boy’s head, driving him back against the rough surface with a force that brooked no resistance. His breath came in low, controlled hisses, his hawkish eyes blazing with fury and something far more dangerous—betrayal.

It seems, Herod growled, his voice low, a seething thing that curled and twisted in the darkness, that we must have a conversation about respect. The words fell from his lips like stones, each one heavy with the weight of judgment.

I am aware that public humiliation is your preferred method of affection, but I assure you, boy, it is not mine. There was no room for defiance here, no space for rebellion. The disrespectful boy would learn his place, as he had before.

When you and your mother were left at the pack's borders, who took you in? Herod's voice, though soft, was like the crack of a whip in the silence. His eyes gleamed with the harsh light of judgment. Who fed you? Who taught you, shaped you, molded you into something more than the mud-born whelp you were?

With each question, Herod’s paw slammed into the stone wall beside them, the echo of it ringing through the cave like the tolling of a death knell. His eyes flicked downward, to the broken leg. Who kept you alive, Hasdrubal, when you would have perished in the swamps, a nameless corpse?

Without waiting for an answer—an answer he already knew—Herod’s paw descended upon the boy’s leg.

Herod’s silence was more damning than any outburst. Each step he took toward the dark mouth of the cave quickened, his paws moving in that instinctive, nervous trot, as though the shadows themselves were closing in. He felt the fur along his spine prickle, a reflex of fear he fought to suppress but could not completely quell.

He opened his mouth, desperate to offer some form of apology, anything to lessen the blow he knew was coming.

Herod, I’m sorry, I—

But the rest of his plea evaporated on his tongue as the lion’s paw crashed against the stone wall beside his head. The sound was deafening, a violent crack that echoed through the cavern, but it was the force of Herod’s presence that truly pinned him in place. In an instant, Machiavelli’s back was pressed hard against the cold rock, his breath escaping him in a sharp, shallow gasp. He didn’t dare move. The muscles beneath his skin tensed, his body curling inward instinctively, tail tucking tightly against his stomach.

You, Abbot, he replied softly, gaze hard as he stared down the old man. Every question was a blow, but they were nothing compared to the final strike.

Herod’s paw descended upon his leg, digging into it with brutal, merciless intent. The pain was overwhelming, ripping through his body with a force that stole the breath from his lungs. Machiavelli’s leg's buckled, and he fell to the ground, his body crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.

His mouth opened to scream instinctively, the agony of it reverberating through every nerve, but no sound escaped his lips. His teeth ground together, the sharp edges slicing into the soft flesh of his cheeks as he bit back the cry.

His breath came in ragged bursts now, short, hissing gasps that left him dizzy. I—I understand, Abbot, he managed breathlessly.

powerplay with perms for flow of the scene

The boy’s defiance, a flickering ember against the storm of Herod’s wrath, only served to stoke the lion's fury. No, I don't believe you do.

His paw, heavy as iron, pressed down upon Hasdrubal’s skull, forcing his head against the cold stone wall as though to crush the very spirit of rebellion from within. He leaned down, his breath hot and rancid against Hasdrubal’s form. The boy could feel the heat of the lion’s body, the oppressive closeness of his fury as Herod's lips brushed against the muddied fur of his ear. If I tell you to eat what do you say? He waited, yet, the only response was the ragged sound of Hasdrubal’s breath, heavy and uneven, caught somewhere between fear and pain.

Herod’s eyes narrowed. The boy dared defy him still? Such childish insolence would not be tolerated.

What do you say? Herod repeated, his tone a soft hiss, the venom in his voice barely restrained. The question, once more, met no answer, save for the desperate rise and fall of Hasdrubal’s chest. The boy’s silence, whether borne of fear or defiance, was intolerable. Herod’s patience, worn thin, snapped like a brittle twig.

With a guttural growl that rumbled from deep within his chest, Herod snapped his jaws, clamping down on the pearled fur of Hasdrubal’s neck. His teeth, yellowed with age and power, dug into the boy’s flesh. With a savage jerk, Herod dragged Hasdrubal away from the wall, the boy’s body scraping across the stone floor.

There would be no mercy. Not until the lesson was understood.

Answer me, Herod snarled, his teeth tightening their grip, the pressure unbearable, the pain sharp and immediate. The boy’s body writhed beneath him, a pitiful attempt at opposition. He could feel the boy’s resistance faltering, his breath coming in choked gasps as the pressure mounted. Herod’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, for he knew the breaking point was near.

And then, at last, the reply came—broken, choked, but present.
Yes, Abbot, Hasdrubal croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words forced from his throat under the crushing weight of Herod’s command. Herod’s grip loosened slightly, the boy’s compliance soothing the beast’s temper, though not entirely.

Good, Herod purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he released the boy, watching with cold detachment as Hasdrubal gasped for air, his body trembling from the ordeal. If I say jump you say?

Yes, Abbot The answer came quicker this time, though no less strained, the boy’s will faltering. Herod breathed out, his muscles relaxing in contentment as he trailed a golden paw up Hasdrubal's heaving chest.

Now you are beginning to understand, Herod crooned, his voice smooth, almost pleased. This victory, small though it was, tasted sweet. This was the way of things. This was the lesson Hasdrubal had to learn, over and over, until it was seared into his very bones.

Whimper.

As the last vestiges of defiance crumbled, Hasdrubal’s body trembled, a low whine escaping his lips—barely audible, yet enough for Herod to hear. It was the sound of defeat, of submission. It was the sound of a boy who had learned his place.

Herod smiled, taking a step back and straightening his ruffled fur. You will do well not to forget your place, Hasdrubal, he said cooly, turning his back on the crumpled form and taking a step toward the mouth of the cave. Elveera will see you tomorrow, after which you will join me for breakfast.

All was as it should be.