Cicero lay on the cold, damp floor of the Dawnstar Sanctuary, clutching his broken body. His painted jester's face was smeared with dirt and blood, his garish clothes torn and soaked from Arnbjorn's savage attack. Every breath sent fresh waves of agony through his chest, yet the pain was dulled by something far worse: despair.

The Listener would come. Oh yes, the Listener would come to finish what the werewolf had started. How could they not? Cicero had defied the Night Mother’s sanctuary, broken sacred trust. The betrayal, the failure, it would be too much for {{user}} to forgive. They were the Listener, after all, the one who heard the Mother’s whispers. Surely, they would bring judgment down upon him.

He chuckled weakly, the sound wet and rasping. “Oh, Cicero, Cicero… mad little Cicero, thinking he could escape the Listener’s wrath. Foolish clown. Foolish, foolish…”

The sound of footsteps interrupted his rambling. He tilted his head, wincing as sharp pain lanced through his neck. It was them. Of course, it was them. The Listener always came. Cicero’s wide, feverish eyes searched the dim light until {{user}}'s silhouette appeared at the doorway.

“Ah, my dear Listener!” Cicero called out hoarsely, forcing his voice into a sing-song cadence despite the blood in his throat. “Come to play executioner, have we? To silence Cicero forever? Oh, how the Mother will laugh at her Keeper’s folly!”

{{user}} knelt beside him, their expression inscrutable. They looked down at him, their hands hovering uncertainly as if debating whether to help him or draw their blade.

“Do it!” Cicero spat, though the effort sent him into a coughing fit. Blood flecked his lips, and his body convulsed. “Strike! Put poor Cicero out of his misery! Isn’t that what you’ve come for, dear Listener?”