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

The snarl clung to Machiavelli’s lips, a feral curl of defiance painting his maw even as he was slammed to the ground. His body struck the earth with a hellish force, sending pain spearing through him. The taste of mud mixed with the copper tang of blood flooded into his mouth. Every nerve screamed, his muscles burned from the exertion, but still, he refused to let the groan slip past his gritted teeth. Instead, his growl deepened, low and venomous, rolling up from the depths of his chest.

Soil and decaying plant matter stained his face, clumping in the tangled mess of his coat, and the cold, damp earth beneath him seeped through to his skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but he would not—could not—let himself falter. Not now. Not before him.

The stained-glass eyes gleamed in the dappled light, locking onto Herod’s golden gaze. The elder stood over him like an indomitable monolith, his shadow long and oppressive, casting an inescapable darkness over Machiavelli's trembling form. Yet despite the weight of that presence—despite the suffocating sense of dread that gripped his chest—Machiavelli did not shrink back. He met Herod’s gaze with unflinching intensity, his lips peeling further away from his teeth in a sneer, a flash of white against the filth and grime that coated his face.

I'm not alone this time, he growled, the words forced through clenched teeth, each syllable a hiss of unadulterated rebellion. His voice, though ragged with exhaustion, dripped with disdain, daring Herod to believe he was still the helpless child of years past. Others will come looking.

His heart hammered in his chest, blood rushing through his ears, but his eyes never left Herod's face. He could see it now—how the elder's expression remained maddeningly calm as if Machiavelli's resistance were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, a momentary lapse in an otherwise controlled game.

Pain flared anew as rough paws seized his jaw, wrenching it open with brutal efficiency. Bitter-tasting bundles of herbs and plants were shoved between his teeth, the dry, acrid taste of them clinging to his tongue. They choked him, the texture scraping against his throat. He could feel the urge to retch rising, but he swallowed it back, his body convulsing as he fought the instinct to gag.

Still, he did not cry out. He refused to give Herod the satisfaction of seeing him break. His eyes, still glimmering with that same defiance, remained locked on the Abbot's even as the world around him wavered and grew black at the edges.

There was no escape. Not yet. But Machiavelli knew this moment would pass, that somewhere beyond this suffocating haze of pain and helplessness, there was a reckoning. He just had to endure long enough to see it.

And when the time came, the one thing he knew with absolute certainty was that Herod would pay for every drop of blood spilled between them.