Kael collapsed.
The sound wasn't dramatic, neither was it cinematic. It was just a man falling to his knees, then to his side, the dust rising around him in a small, pathetic cloud.
Tatehan stood over him, sword still in hand, the blade dripping red onto the amphitheater floor. His chest heaved. His mind felt blank, like someone had wiped it clean of all thought except one:
What have I done?
Kael's hand went to his chest, pressing against the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and thick, too much of it. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Each inhale sounded unnormal.
"Kael..." Tatehan's voice broke. He dropped to his knees beside the man, the sword clattering to the ground. "I didn't, I wasn't trying to..."
But that was a lie, wasn't it? He'd aimed for a critical hit. He'd wanted to stop Kael, to win, to survive. And now this was the result.
