"Cherion... please..." Philia gasped out, his voice cracking into a desperate sob as he choked. His face was pale, his fingers weakly clutching at Cherion's stiff, bruised wrists in a futile attempt to push the heavy weapon away. "Please... stop...! I didn't mean... I never meant to take anything from you...!"
Cherion sat pinned directly atop Philia's chest on the cold velvet rug. His fine silk robes were torn at the collar, his silver hair wild and disheveled across his forehead. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and burning with an unhinged, frantic desperation. In his trembling, white-knuckled right hand, he held a sleek silver dagger raised high above Philia's pale throat, its polished blade catching the flickering, chaotic candlelight.
