Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

I’m not playing sick, he said at last, his voice low, as though he were speaking more to the empty air than to her. Machiavelli's eyes flicked toward the ground, toward the scattered leaves and soil beneath his paws, before rising again to meet her hard gaze. But I don’t suppose that matters, does it?

There was no bitterness in his tone, only a weary acceptance. He knew the game. He knew how she saw him. A liar. A manipulator. A beast who had done unspeakable things.

However... I’ll walk. I won’t need to be carried, he added after a pause, the words coming out slower, softer, as if each one was being torn from him. There was no point in fighting it, no point in pretending there was an escape any longer. Perhaps divine retribution had come at last, not in the form of Herod's death, but the dog's own.