Earlier.
"Now," came the voice, smooth and low, curling through the cavern like smoke from a distant fire, "where do you think you're going?"
It was the werewolf. His tone didn't rise. It didn't need to. The words slid across stone and bone, echoing from the cavern walls with casual menace, like something ancient stirring in the dark, amused that anyone dared speak above a whisper in its presence.
"We spared you before," the Cardinal barked, taking a step forward that clattered loudly in his armor, "don't try your luck, you flea-infested mutt!"
The werewolf's response was laughter. Not loud. Not mocking. Just soft, slow, and unpleasantly patient. He remained out of sight, his voice drifting from the high shadows above.
"Spared me?" he said, with a sneer thick enough to taste. "No, I recall it differently. You didn't spare me. You just didn't have the spine to come at me yourself. That's why you hide behind the boy."
