Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

Machiavelli’s breath hitched, but he did not answer. Instead, his gaze fell, drifting toward some far-off, unremarkable spot on the floor.

Safiya injured? A sharp, biting cold began to coil in his stomach, twisting it into tight, nauseating spirals. His paws curled instinctively, nails digging into the soft pine needles and leaves that made up his bedding, For a moment, the world around him dulled, narrowing into a suffocating tunnel. Eira’s words rang in his ears, echoing over and over until they drowned out every other sound.

Oh gods above, he whispered, voice barely more than a breath, ragged and thin. The words tumbled from his lips without thought and Machiavelli swallowed hard, his throat dry. His pulse pounded in his temples. He felt sick—sick to his core.

I... His voice cracked, a tremor of guilt threading through the sound. I did everything I could.

But it hadn’t been enough.

The bitter truth sat like poison in his veins, each heartbeat spreading the venom further. He could feel it—the failure, the futility of it all—burning in his gut like fire. His throat tightened, choking on words he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

He had promised. Promised to protect Safiya, to keep her safe—and now, she lay injured because of him. It didn’t matter that he had fought. It didn’t matter that he had given everything he had. In the end, the result was the same: he had failed.