譲れぬものがあった。
その一太刀に込める想いもあった。
矜持に翳りはなく、誇りは眩く。

しかし影は、
凶兆の香りが鼻を掠めるよりも早く、
静と舞い降る雪がごとく……

その首筋に、毒牙を突き立てた。

Nothing would have stopped them. There was so very much in that single blow. No shadow touched their dignity. Their pride shone brightly.

But even before their ominous fates became clear, the shadow began to blanket everything like silently falling snow.

...Readying itself to sink its venomous teeth into its preys' necks.