Eichhorst lay coughing in the dirt, his shattered armor dripping with dark, acidic blood. Yet, despite his broken ribs and the blade at his throat, a sickly, breathless laugh escaped his lips.
"You... you cannot kill me, Draven!" Eichhorst wheezed, his bloody teeth bared in a desperate, triumphant sneer. "The High Law... the Grand Election! If you strike down a candidate before the ratification at dawn, you forfeit the mantle! You will never lead the unified territories—North, South, East, and West! You'll be nothing but an outlaw!"
Draven stood over him, his silver hair catching the dark lightning flickering across the sky. He looked down at the bleeding general with an unbothered, lethal smirk.
"You're right," Draven rumbled softly, his baritone cold enough to freeze the blood in Eichhorst's veins. "I shouldn't kill you."
Before Eichhorst could even register the words, Draven's shortsword plunged straight through his chest plate, driving deep into his heart.
SPURT—!
