by Rodney Sloan
“Do you think I spared your brothers? When have the legends ever told of Belladonna the Merciful?” She pressed her blade to his throat, the steel as cold as her eyes. “You men are weak.”
“Remember me! Look past the dragon-blood scar, Bella.”
“What sort of fool do you think me?” her voice held no pity.
Yet she paused.
He could feel her eyes trying to unmask him, but the acidic blood of the Fell Wurm had burned fiercely.
“It is me, Darrik. If you ever loved me…”
“I have forgotten that name. All are dead to me. You are dead to me.”
She lifted her blade high.