A spray of thick and burning blood immediately spurted from the wound, splashing Mordred from head to toe. The draconic vital fluid was warmer than human blood, almost boiling, and it gave off an acrid metallic odor mixed with a spicy fragrance characteristic of elemental magic.
Mordred firmly maintained his grip on the sword, supporting Peter's trembling and dying body whose legs no longer carried him. The dragon slowly collapsed against him, his dead weight pressing against his executioner's chest.
Peter's gaze, once so proud and dominating, was now veiled by the proximity of death. His eyes stared into emptiness with an expression of absolute terror mixed with incomprehension. How had he come to this? How could a simple human have...?
Mordred's sadistic smile widened until it distorted his features into a demonic mask. He leaned toward the dying dragon's ear, his voice now nothing more than an icy whisper charged with unhealthy enjoyment:
