Bonesplinter Ravine Concrete Halls

What in heaven's name happened to your neck? Eira asked sharply, her capable paws brushing aside Hasdrubal's fur to reveal the bruised and battered flesh beneath, hues of green and purple mottling his skin. Her cold brown eyes met his opal gaze with a piercing scrutiny. She shook her head in disapproval. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into when you’re not lying here bothering me, but I suggest you limit it, at least until you're healed.

There was no warmth in her tone—only the straightforward practicality of a doctor intent on her patient’s survival. She had no use for kindness where this one was concerned. They’d never make it back to Godsmouth if he kept injuring himself like this. Perhaps that was his intention. Her jaw clenched, mouth tightening into a thin, stern line.

And for your information, the girl you were supposed to protect? You failed. She’s been injured. Quite seriously, I might add.

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.

Eira’s ears pressed flat against her skull, her whole body bristling with a barely contained fury.

Don’t you dare, she hissed, her voice sharp as a whip crack. Don’t you dare, not for a second, turn this into some kind of pity party for yourself.  That girl is out there, bleeding, because of you, and you’ve got the gall to make this about you? How dare you.

You think you did all you could? she scoffed, the sound thick with disgust, her lips curling as she spoke. You could have died—that, Hasdrubal, would have been all you could do. That would’ve been justice. And instead, here you are, alive and well enough to whine.

Her eyes, cold and blazing with pain, dared him to challenge her.

Machiavelli trembled beneath the weight of her fury, the raw edge of her words cutting through him like a blade. His muddied ears flattened back against his head, drooping as if they could shield him from the scorching judgment she unleashed.

Slowly, his gaze sank, eyes falling away from hers, unable to bear the searing intensity of her blow. His shoulders hunched inward, posture folding in on itself as if he might disappear into the earth beneath him. He clenched his teeth, shame clawing at his insides.

You're right, The dog whispered, the words, flimsy and inadequate, barely escaping his lips. I'm sorry.