Yoanas was nothing but a ruin of flesh now—his lower half gone, shredded, a trail of blood, gore, and ruptured organs painting the stone behind him. But the bastard wouldn't die. No, not yet.
With a snarl tearing from his throat, he dragged himself forward with trembling arms, fingers clawing at the broken earth like a dying wolf still trying to rip out the hunter's throat.
His insides sloshed behind him, steaming in the cold, and yet he moved, relentless, dripping blood, crawling through his own hell.
"Don't..." he spat, crimson drool hanging from his lips, "Don't think... you'll get away with this... Bloodbane..."
Arkanos' boots echoed through the courtyard like war drums as he approached the crawling man. He knelt before the wreck that had once been the proud Wolf of the Vale.
With one gloved hand, he fisted a chunk of Yoanas's blood-soaked hair and yanked his head up like a butcher inspecting meat, then spoke coldly.
"I already have," Arkanos whispered.
