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The brute’s lips merely twitched in the silence. He did not respond to her words. There was no need to respond. Both creatures knew why it was. And they both knew that it had not been necessary. The cause of his reason had been her actions. Had she not fled from Caledonia, these wretched things would not be required to live beneath his mercy. But she had run, and he had simply pursued. Cause and Effect. Causality. It was simple. The crow wolf had once been simply a wolf, and he did not allow things to overly complicate his plans. Intricate plans were the delusions of a fool. He worked simply and efficiently. Without emotions to blind him, without emotions to hinder him, the crow wolf had become a god of darkness. Some gods had fallen dormant—he would take their place. With the blood of Cwmfen nic Graine, he would gain immortality.
He could smell her blood in the air—it was intoxicating. Like nothing else in the wretched world. It made him restless. He needed it now. And the blood, while it had slowed, still flowed from those wounds. Her movements did not allow them to begin the process of healing, and her elevating heart rate simply pushed the blood through with an elevated celerity. It would make her weak. Soon, she would lose too much blood. She would feel the symptoms—it would not be long: weakness, trembling, and, if left untended for too long, death. The pied brute would be careful with this one—he required her to live. But it could be used to his advantage. She would not be able to resist him. It would make things much more...simpler. She was foolish to challenge him in such a way. It was insulting that she had come to him like this. But, as with all things, the Korean would take advantage of this weakness.
And his daughter rushed him. The thrust to his torso was easily avoided by a simple step back and the bending back of his hips. His hand went to push the blade aside, but she swiftly brought the blade up again. And once more the Korean martial artist avoided her attack. And he made no attack upon her. He simply moved back, blocking and avoiding her every attempt to cut his flesh. Slowly, the pied brute lead her down the hallway and to the room. Here, the brute paused and refused to move any farther. When her sword came up again, he moved in, blocking it with a single hand held at her wrist. He twisted that arm down, holding it between his own arm and his body. She pulled back with a strength that he had not expected, and the blade bit him, cutting into that deep, old scar. He took the blade, tossing it aside with a snarl. And then, when she threw that kick, he caught it, holding her leg in the same way he had held her arm. Lifting her, he threw her against the wall, causing her blood to smear and splatter against it before he dropped her unceremoniously upon the cold ground, those black orbs watching her with that cold, distant, calculation.