The blade traced a slow line of fire down his face. He desperately tried to cry out, to jerk away, but the hand over his mouth prevented both. Steel filled his vision, gray and dirty. Warm blood trickled down the left side of his face, onto his neck, under his shirt. There were only fragments after that. Laughter. The hot stink of wine on his attacker’s breath. A lessening of the pain, and screams—not his own. Voices, high-pitched with fear, begging. Then silence. Darkness.
