“Men will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”
― Denis Diderot
The man sighed in contemplation as he sat in the darkly lit room, a wine cup in spare his hand as he nursed his bruised jaws. He was tired, tired from his job, and tired of living.
“How is he?” A voice emerged from the darkness, startling the man who was nursing his broken jaw. He put the wine cup on the brown mahogany table whilst rubbing his hands over his face in contemplation.
“Battered.” The man grunted back into the darkness, a cackle erupting as flashes of red emerged from within the darkness- sick bastard, the man thought. “Myra’s death has weakened his soul.”
“That’s good. Very good.” The voice hissed, a rattling noise emerging as shadows began forming on the walls in the shape of monsters. “Can we kill him?”
“We can’t,” the man admitted with a sigh. Even though his scream held anguish and pain from Myra’s death, the force and shear strength of his punch could tell any person that the man still had the strength to wipe out a battalion. And his broken jaw was clear evidence of his strength.
“We killed Myra! He can die.” The voice persisted as the man huffed in anger. He wasn’t going to face that monster.
He learned his lesson.
“His wolf is still strong.” The man responded, hoping the darkness could see the logical reason why they shouldn’t kill him. “The only thing on that monster’s mind is darkness and revenge. His will to die has weakened as his will to enact revenge increases! Your bloody idea of killing the king has failed.”
“Can we weaken his wolf?” The man paused in horror at what the voice was suggesting.
“Not without his mate.”
“Then find his mate, and make sure you eliminate her.” The voice demanded and suddenly the man was in the dark, and the shadows that danced along the walls were gone.
He had a job to do now. No time to complain about a bruised jaw.
He had to find the king’s mate and then kill her.
Only then can the dynasty truly end.