"Good," Rex wheezed, the word thick with arterial blood.
His fingers, pale and unsteady, reached up and closed around the protruding steel where it emerged from his back.
Instead of pulling away in agony, he gripped the blade with a terrifying familiarity, holding the sword steady in his own body to prevent Leonidas from withdrawing it. A grotesque smile split his blood-soaked face.
"It has been... so long... since anyone had the courage to get this close to me."
Leonidas did not offer him the satisfaction of a retort. His face was a mask of divine fury, twisted by a pain that was no longer physical but spiritual.
His knuckles were white as he gripped the hilt. With a guttural roar of pure, unadulterated hatred, he twisted the sword.
CRUNCH. SKREEEE.
