Syléane's lifeless body still lay on the ground, bathed in a pool of scarlet blood. Mordred did not look away. He did not celebrate. He did not smile. He breathed slowly, deeply, as if his heart absorbed with each beat the accumulated hatred of an entire lifetime.
Before him, Belgaroth, massive, broader than any other dragon in their hybrid form, had frozen at the sight of the corpse. The red flames of his mane crackled under the effect of a muffled anger, but also... doubt.
- "You killed Syléane," he said in a calm, almost clinical tone. "You've just signed your death warrant, bastard."
Mordred stared at him. His gaze was that of a man who could no longer be stopped. Cold. Sharp. And burning, with a flame far more terrible than any draconic fire.
- "That's amusing..." he murmured, approaching slowly. "You say that, Belgaroth, but I've never felt more alive than when looking at you there, standing within reach of my blade."
Belgaroth smiled. Arrogant. Relaxed.
