Just One More
His porcelain skin was a mural of death, the crimson tears, flowing freely from lacerated flesh, a reflection of his sorrow. Drawing deep a ragged breath, he took another step.
Two remained, their shadow-wreathed carapaces untouched by his blade.
Sha’ith.
Beyond the twin Draemorg she lay, still as death itself, untouched by the centuries.
Sha’ith.
The world was losing all substance, the shadows spreading to encompass her ethereal form.
He coughs…he falls…
Sha’ith.