Pathetic.
He crawled like a worm through the filth, bloodied and broken, clutching a crude little dagger as if it meant anything. As if it could stop her.
The poison burned faintly where he'd scratched her. Insulting.
Did he truly think she hadn't tasted worse? That she hadn't bathed in far crueler toxins during her centuries of slumber and war?
She had let him breathe. Let him think he had a chance.
Because that was always the most delicious part.
Watching the hope rot out of their eyes.
Velra tilted her head, stepping over a splintered chunk of the wall she'd reduced to dust.
"You think you're still in a game, don't you?" she said, smiling as his dagger-wielding hand trembled.
There was blood on his teeth. His ribs were cracked—she could smell the splintered bone. One leg bent the wrong way. The thrum of his life force was faint now, fluttering like a dying bird's heartbeat in winter.
And yet... his eyes hadn't fully broken.
Not yet.
