At the center of it all, Dravok stood completely still, the faint line across his neck bleeding steadily, the crimson stark against the scarred surface of his skin, yet he made no move to wipe it away, as though the sensation itself held his attention more than the wound. His breathing had shifted, not dramatically but enough to reveal that something within him had changed, something that had not been present before this moment, something colder and far more unsettling.
A slow, creeping chill ran along his spine, sharp and undeniable, settling deep within him in a way that refused to be ignored, because for the first time in a very long time, he had felt it not as an abstract concept but as a reality that had brushed against him.
Death.
But real and immediate, close enough that he could still feel the echo of it lingering in his body.
