Moonspear she was long gone, long, long gone

Hydra needed to do very little here. Her opponent was young, younger than she even anticipated—but would it have changed anything? Likely not. Hydra watched as the wolf began to tumble, only for their fall to be stopped prematurely, the boy speared by Moonspear itself. Hydra felt nothing, her own heart steel as she considered all thing. She was numb to his screaming; she thought of her sons, her daughter—and she saw him, running toward them. Hurting them. He young, they, younger; no doubt he did not want to run into the likes of them.

Trespassers were to be killed. One exception always meant more. Her brother had slowed as she had, though now had met her; Hydra saw the horror written across his face, and her cold eyes were sharp upon him. Do you forget that the children we keep here are hunted? She rumbled, ears rotating atop her head. Most everyone weeps so in the face of death. Trespassers will never be shown mercy, Arcturus, she reminded, but looked to the boy that had curled into himself. 

This once, she found it in herself to find some place for the word. Some small shred of it. I shall make it swift, she drawled, voice softer though no less firm. For if she were to pass the sentence, she would swing the sword. He had been tortured enough through his own fall, she supposed—to prolong things now would be unnecessarily cruel. And so Hydra continued on ahead, looking all the world like the Reaper that she was. 

There was no pleasure in her role this day; she was only glad to protect Moonspear and the children of this potential plague. One life ended to save many more, Hydra believed—but her ears cupped forward, willing to not let his final words fall onto deaf ears.