Rhaegar stepped forward and came to a halt before him.
"Leonard Drias," he said, his voice calm—so calm it felt colder than anger. "Of the three you killed, one was a woman with child. Seven months along."
The man stirred.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
His face was smeared with blood and grime, barely recognizable. Yet his eyes—those eyes still burned, sharp and vicious, carrying the feral defiance of a man with nothing left to lose.
"Lord Rhaegar," the man grinned, baring teeth stained red with blood, "I've endured all the tricks your Shadow Guard can muster. If you have the skill, then kill me. I am of no use to you alive."
Rhaegar measured him with a cold stare.
He did not speak.
That gaze—too calm, too still—was more unsettling than fury. Slowly, the smile on Leonard's face stiffened.
Rhaegar turned away.
He walked to the wall and selected a slender blade from the rack—a narrow weapon, its edge gleaming cold beneath the lamplight.
