Otter Creek Blood Stains on the Collar Means Just Don’t Ask

Machiavelli pressed himself deeper into the earth, claws digging frantically at the soil as if by sheer will alone he could carve out an escape. But no matter how desperately he scraped, the invisible leash tethering him to Herod only tightened. It was always there— had always been there— an unbreakable bind to the man who had once claimed his soul. And now, it was pulling taut.

The soft thud of the alligator-hide cloak hitting the ground sent a ripple through Machiavelli’s core, a shudder he could not suppress. His wide, haunted eyes tracked Herod’s every movement— the slow, deliberate way the elder seated himself, moving with the infuriating patience of a predator who feigns disinterest in its prey. He could almost taste the old man’s hunger, veiled as it was behind that sorrowful mask.

His ears flattened tightly against his skull as Herod’s cloying words, choking in their gentility, attempted to worm their way into his mind. Hasdrubal was the child Herod had crushed beneath the weight of his control— the child who had bled and wept in Godsmouth, clinging to the hollow promises of a love that never existed. But Machiavelli? Machi had buried that boy long ago.

And yet… Herod’s voice had a way of worming beneath his skin, settling like a parasite in the cracks of his mind. It was too familiar, too close, stirring a nausea deep in the half-breed's stomach. Fear him? Oh yes, Machiavelli feared him. There was nothing in this world he feared more. Not death. Not pain. But this: being dragged back under Herod’s thumb, returning to a life where every thought— every breath— was controlled by the Abbot’s whims.

The elder, voice rich with regret, spoke of misunderstanding, of a love tainted by necessity. Machiavelli's lip curled into a silent snarl. Was that how Herod saw it? Did he truly believe that the beatings, the humiliation, the endless rituals, were acts of love?

“You were the one to first spill blood.”

A laugh bubbled up from his throat, harsh and jagged like nails scraping against a chalkboard, spilling out before he could choke it back. It was a hollow, empty sound, twisted by disbelief and scorn. Spill blood? Herod had rewritten the story so beautifully, casting him as the reckless child, the sinner desperately in need of saving. The laughter died, turning into a wet cough, bile rising in his throat as the memory of Juno’s lifeless body flashed behind his eyes, and Herod standing there, untouched, unbothered, as though it had all been some necessary evil.

The touch of Herod’s paw on his shoulder jolted him back to the present. Machiavelli flinched, a sharp, involuntary motion as if burned. The warmth of the Abbot's touch crawled over his skin, leaving behind a trail of nausea in its wake. It was more than a simple touch, it was a brand. A reminder of every moment Herod had held him, guided him and broken him.

Forgive? The word echoed in his mind. Herod spoke of forgiveness as though he were the one wronged, as though Machi—Hasdrubal—was the one in need of redemption. As though he should be grateful. It was absurd. It was maddening.

Slowly, painfully, Machiavelli dragged his eyes upward, forcing himself to meet Herod’s gaze. His heart pounded, each beat filled with fear and defiance, but his lips twitched into a sardonic smile— cruel and mocking. The opal eyes gleamed, not with the hope or forgiveness Herod was searching for, but with something darker, something harder. Defiance— obstinate, and unyielding.

Go to hell.

And he lunged for the man's neck.