Most of the men Alpheo had killed had been dispatched with the edge of a sword. He was well-acquainted to the finality of it, his eyes locking onto a man's in those final, bloody seconds as they traded desperate, hacking swings at each other's limbs and necks, or thrashed like rabid dogs while grappling in the mud. In other cases, death came with a last, quiet lament as Alpheo gave the word and the executioner delivered his rhythmic swing, or the heavy length of the rope snapped tight.
It was not every day, however, that he killed a boy with nothing but a bottle of ink.
And yet, the blood would be shed all the same. Whether he drew it personally or left the butchery to others, his was the word currently being pressed into the parchment that would allow it to happen.
