Shyan stares at master Davit expiring among the vibrant weeds and rich earth. Her eyes are wide, protruding as she struggles to process what’s happened. She bends at his side, sees the spot on his throat where she broke his windpipe, all twisted purple and bruised. Tears well in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, master,” she sobs.
Her only reply is a placid, accepting smile that plays upon Davit’s lips as the light leaves his eyes. Watching him die, Shyan’s blood boils, the hot liquid coursing through her body. Clenching her teeth, with a shaky hand she gently shuts Davit’s eyelids, straightens his form into a more dignified pose. Then she leaves the clearing, returning a moment later with a spade. She begins to dig.