Corell was afraid, fear licking at his moonbear heart.

His arms hung limply at his sides, and his legs were just as useless.

All four of his limbs were shattered, each a throbbing with every quiver or every attempt sending new waves of agony through his dying body.

His breaths came shallow and ragged, and warm tears streaked down his face, mixing with the grime and blood caked there.

The tears shamed him.

He wanted to hold onto some scrap of dignity, but the agony coursing through his broken body betrayed him.

The man who had reduced him to this state crouched down in front of him. His arms rested on his knees, his fingers twitching constantly, moving like the legs of a dead insect.

His form was a patchwork of tattered fabrics, mostly in dull, yellow-brown tones that looked like they'd seen countless harsh journeys. Three glowing flasks hung from a rope across his chest, each of them glowing in a different color.

Their faint light casting eerie shadows on his bandaged hands and scarf-covered face.

A hood was draped low over his head and a scarf around his mouth and nose, leaving his eyes as the only visible features.

They drilling into him with almost clarvoyand intencity. The man no doubt saw Corells very beeing and juding form his looks, it bored him.

“Where are you from?” he asked, his voice calm, almost conversational.

But there was something beneath that calm, his voice conveying the boredom Corell already saw in the expression of his eyes.

Corell coughed weakly, his almost toothless mouth filling with blood.

He tasted copper as bubbles of spit and blood formed and burst at his lips.

His body was a ruin, his Fullshape beaten down like it was nothing.

What could he do now but curse?

“Fuck you,” he spat, his voice thick and wet.

The man tilted his head slightly, unfazed. “How many are you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Are you on the stronger or weaker side of your tribe?”

“Fuck you.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, his patience visibly thinning.

For the first time, there was a flicker of emotion in these eyes that had been entirle neutral even during their fight.

Though calling it a fight was very generous towards Coroll.

“You’re getting repetitive.” The man said. His voice didn’t rise, but there was a weight to it now, like making a promise. “Don’t worry. Your corpse won’t be found.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Corell felt a pang. Not fear, but regret.

Death was inevitable. Everything lived, everything died.

It was no big deal.

But dying like this, unable to drag this bastard down with him, stung worse than his shattered limbs.

His heart ached for his family, the woman and daughter he would leave behind.

He wouldn’t see Minxy grow up, and that alone, was his greatest sin.

Hopefully his demise wouldn't wound her too greatly.

She was a little child so surely she would quickly forget the strange man that had sung her goodnight songs whenever he wasn't hunting.

Which as he now realised wasn't nearly often enought.

Still, if he was going down, he’d go down with spite.

He sucked snot into his mouth and spat toward the man’s face.

Before the glob left his lips, the man’s fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head back with pure brutality.

Pain exploded through Corell’s skull, lights dancing in his vision.

“Don’t be barbaric,” the man said, his tone unchanged, utterly casual.

Corell saw his own blood dripping from the man’s knuckles even as his vision blurred, the world tilting unsteadily around him.

"Do you know a woman who can use lightning?" the man asked, his voice carrying the faintest hint of interest, a subtle shift in his otherwise monotone demeanor.

Corell let out a wet, rasping cough, his chest rattling with the effort.

He forced an almost toothless smile, blood staining his gums.

"She’ll tear your ass open," he managed. The defiance he wanted to convey was clear, despite the slurr of his speech.

Oh, how he wished he could see it.

When Groll had first brought her back to the village, Corell hadn’t trusted her.

How could he? She was a stray, an outsider after all.

But she’d proven herself. There was no one more brutal, more unrelenting than her.

He braced himself for another punch, expecting his defiance to be met with the same cruelty that had already left him shattered.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, the man leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharper iintense, something flickering in his eyes.

Coroll had rose his interest.

"Ah, so you do know her. Good." His fingers twitched in that unsettling way again, creeping along his knees like restless insects.

"How many of you are there?"

Corell spat blood, his head lolling to the side.

"Fuck you," he rasped.

The man sighed, tilting his head. "That’s not a number."

Corell summoned the last reserves of his strength, a single word bubbling up through the pain, dripping with venom.

"Fuck yourgh—"

Before he could finish, the man’s hand shot out, gripping Corell’s jaw with brutal precision.

He didn’t squeeze, didn’t apply more pressure than necessary, but the threat was clear in the cold, steady grip of his bandaged fingers.

Then Corolls head was force to the side, followed by a sickening crack.

The-One-Who-Judges straightened with a weary sigh, brushing the blood from his bandaged hands onto his worn robes.

This was the third person he’d found in his search, but the first who wasn’t entirely white.

He hadn't been much stronger than the others, pathetic, really,but he’d at least provided a sliver of direction.

It seemed the pale-skinned people, the woman with lightning, and this broken man were all part of the same group, despite their varied appearances.

A low, guttural growl rumbled behind him, cutting through the still air.

The-One-Who-Judges turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.

The massive beast stood just a few steps away, its hulking form silhouetted against the dim light.

Its amber eyes gleamed with hunger as they fixed on the corpse at his feet.

He regarded the creature with the same calm detachment he afforded everything in this layer.

There stood the massive beast that he had stared into submission just a few days ago.

It was a pathetic display, cowering in front of a person that wasn't even a quater of it's size.

Still, it had its uses.

Weak, yes, but obedient.

And, most importantly, it was a convenient way to dispose of evidence.

"Go on," he said, his voice low and commanding as he stepped back from the mangled body.

His eyes flicked dismissively to the corpse before returning to the beast. "Gorge."

The creature hesitated only for a moment, its primal instincts warring with its ingrained fear of him.

Then it lunged forward, tearing into the remains with feral fervor.

The-One-Who-Judges watched impassively as blood sprayed across the dirt, the sound of ripping flesh and crunching bone filling the silence.

His mind had already moved on, turning over the information he'd gleaned.

The-one-who-judges was lost in thought.

He waited patiently until the creature was finished eating and killed it.