The months flowed in a monotonous and atrocious cycle, where time had neither shape nor color. Mordred no longer measured his life in days, but in corpses. In faces frozen in their final expression, in empty gazes staring into eternity, in warm skins that inexorably cooled under his fingers. He had stopped counting how many humans he had been forced to kill after exceeding a hundred, compelled by the dragons to perfect the morbid art they imposed upon him: methodical assassination.