Draven's dagger came down again the fallen knights, ready to finish the last shred of resistance. His chest heaved, each breath ragged, each movement a testament to the brutal endurance that defined him. But suddenly—a sharp, wet hiss split the air.
A thin line blossomed across his neck, cutting halfway through, and blood sprayed in a crimson arc. Draven froze mid-motion, dagger still raised. His fingers instinctively pressed against the wound, but it was no use—fluid pulsed with alarming force, hot and slick against the rain-chilled air. He staggered, coughing, choking on the metallic taste flooding his throat.
He coughed violently hard, spat blood into the mud, each gasp tearing through his lungs, wet, gurgling sounds filling the tense silence. His vision blurred, and yet his red eyes burned sharper, narrowed into deadly slits. Through the haze of pain and the bitter metallic taste of blood, he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel:
> "Damn…fucking…bastard…"
Draven stumbled, one hand pressed to the ragged cut across his neck, blood running in hot streams over his collarbone and dripping onto the mud. Each cough tore through him, wet, gurgling, forcing his vision to swim with red and brown. He spat a thick spray of blood onto the ground, the metallic tang stinging his tongue, and yet—slowly, painfully—the wound began to knit itself. Flesh pulled together with a tight, almost twitching shudder. The heat of the blood faded, replaced by a dull, aching pressure.
He coughed again, smaller this time, hacking wetly as the last trickle of blood left his mouth. His voice rasped, thick and slurred with the residue of blood, rough and hoarse like gravel dragged across steel:
> "…even… even when I dodged it… to think you almost… chopped my head off…"
Each word came wet and broken, half-choked by the lingering taste of copper and iron. Draven's chest heaved, lungs burning, but his eyes—red and fierce—narrowed. Pain flared, but the healing stung, raw and insistent. The world sharpened again around him: the mud, the rain, the shattered forms of the fallen knights.
Draven pressed the healing wound with a trembling hand, feeling the slick warmth recede as his flesh stitched itself together with a slow, stubborn pulse. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, each inhalation a stab of fire through his lungs. Blood streaked across his lips and chin, and yet his eyes—narrowed, red, burning—tracked the aftermath of the battle like a predator assessing prey.
> "You're… predictable,"
He hissed the words through blood-smeared teeth, each syllable wet and broken, rattling like gravel in a tin. His shoulders hunched, muscles coiled, and the dagger in his hand quivered slightly from pain and effort.
> "Too focused on one thing… always aiming for my head with every swing… so fucking obvious."
Draven spat another thick glob of blood into the mud, then chuckled harshly, a wet, gurgling sound that made even the dying around him flinch.
> "Though i almost… lost my head… but my gamble… paid off."
He took a slow, shuddering breath, the metallic taste still thick in his mouth. Pain still burned in his chest and neck, but his mind was sharp, calculating. If I hadn't dodge a the right time, if I hadn't risked everything… He shivered at the thought, each heartbeat a grim reminder.
> "If I didn't… take the chance… you might've actually killed me… eventually."
His eyes glinted with something cold, fierce, and untamed, blood and mud streaking his face like war paint. He lowered the dagger slightly, letting the blood trickling down wash over his fingers.
Draven's breath rasped, thick and wet in his throat. The gash across his neck had sealed to a thin, dark line, but his voice still came out rough, half-growl, half-burnt whisper.
He looked down.
Saren was still alive. Barely. The great helm was cracked open, one eye visible through the blood and mud. Each breath rattled through his chest in short, broken bursts.
Draven wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a low, rasping chuckle that sounded more like a cough.
> "This entire shit…" he muttered, voice dripping with fatigue and venom. "Has been fucking annoying."
He kicked aside a piece of broken armor and took a step closer, boots squelching in the mud.
> "I'll give you this, though…"
His eyes flicked down to Saren's ruined form, the faintest glint of something almost like respect burning behind them.
> "You're strong. way tronger than most of the bastards I've gutted. If I couldn't heal like I do…" He paused, dragging in a shaky breath. "…As I said before you might've actually killed me back there."
He crouched slightly, blood still running down his jaw as his voice dropped into a low snarl.
> "But too bad for you… that isn't the case."
He tilted his head, crimson eyes glinting through the haze of rain and smoke.
> "You should've just fucked off when I told you to."
Draven took another step forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood over the dying knight. His shadow fell across Saren's cracked visor.
> "Now look at you…"
He let the words hang, heavy and cold.
Draven's chest heaved, each ragged breath rattling through his throat like broken pipes. Blood still streaked his face, slick and warm, dripping from his jaw and neck. His crimson eyes locked onto Saren's shattered form, unblinking, merciless. The rain mixed with mud and blood, running down his blade as he adjusted his stance, predator and executioner in one.
He leaned forward slightly, letting the weight of his presence press down, voice low, wet, and rasping:
> "Let me ask you something…"
His words came half-choked, slick with blood and effort, a wet hiss between each syllable. He let his dagger glint in the dim, storm-darkened light.
> "Have you… seen enough blood yet?"
He spat a thick glob of metallic fluid into the mud, the hiss of it hitting the ground echoing like a curse. His lips curled into a grim, blood-stained smile, teeth gleaming faintly through the gore.
> "I promise… I'll show you. And, you'll get a good fill…"
Draven's voice dropped lower, almost a growl, wet and harsh from the blood coating his throat. Each word was deliberate, slow, savoring the terror he was inflicting.
> "…and I'm gonna make sure you… see every drop."