An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 17, Wrath of the Wronged.
(Preview)
The unicorn took a step towards him, horn lowered, the point pressing lightly against his chest.
She could kill him, too.
She could have done so at any time.
Of course she could’ve, he realised.
Hell, she probably knew he’d been following her, knew his reasons for hunting, knew why he felt he had to kill her in the first place.
In the time he could’ve taken to slit her throat, he couldn’t have even moved. He hadn’t moved. He was trapped.
It was by her mercy alone he was still breathing.
It was by the mercy of the one he’d slaughtered before that he’d even managed to kill it at all.
Philza winced as he felt the point of the horn pierce his chest, just a prick, letting nothing more than a small trickle of blood wick upwards from the wound and into the grooved spiral of the horn before flowing into her skull.
And then she paused, her eyes narrowed, as if she was glaring at him, and yet her soft expression belied a sense of…acceptance?
He…he wasn’t sure what her expression was.
All he knew was he had truly, utterly, fucked up.
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