Bonesplinter Ravine Dead Voxel

Machiavelli winced, his sharp intake of breath barely contained as the woman’s hard paws dug into his torn flesh with all the grace of a butcher. Each rough stroke of her paw sent fresh waves of pain coursing through his body, but he bit back the sound that threatened to escape, grinding his teeth.

Her claws scraped against his skin, just shy of drawing blood, and for a brief second, Machiavelli thought she might actually do it—might let that rage consume her and finish what fate had already started. But she didn’t. She paused, her breath coming in quick, furious huffs, and Machiavelli dared to meet her eyes.

He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I didn’t kill him.