Ludwig thought for a moment of what the Werewolf had said. He knew deep down that this was a fight he will never win. The mere ease this creature used to tear away the Queen's head was enough to inform him of how dangerous this creature was. He needed to tread carefully now.
"The same? Maybe," Ludwig said, his voice carrying a faint rasp, the kind that came not from wear but from disuse, as if he'd been holding it back too long. He took a small breath, one that didn't fill lungs since he had none, only corrected his posture. "We may look like monsters," he continued, his gaze never leaving the beast before him, "but I'm not one who'd kill the family of a man who once lent me a hand on a dark, cold night."
The memory of Van Dijk's journal flickered as he said it not in nostalgia, but in principle. "Treacherous Fanged Apostle," he finished, letting the title land with the weight of a truth spoken aloud rather than a curse hurled in anger.
