He began to crawl.
Not walking, not even trying to stand—crawling on his hands and knees like some broken animal, dragging his useless legs behind him. His fingernails scraped against the cobblestones, leaving thin trails of blood as he clawed his way toward Pierre. The sound was worse than the statue's fall—a wet, desperate scratching that made Pierre's skin crawl.
"I'll kill you," Hardy gasped between breaths, still crawling forward. "I'll tear out your throat with my teeth. I'll make you watch as I burn this whole town to ash. I'll—"
His words dissolved. The threats bled into curses, a meaningless, frothing stream of sound. The great Captain Hardy, terror of the Dawn Sea, had been reduced to a gibbering madman crawling through the wreckage of his own legacy.
