With that, and a final (for now) press of his lips to Kreyu's bloodied cheek, he rises from a knee and moves to the door.

He stops only to glare at the arrow that whispers at him from the puddle of blood (her blood, her precious blood) it rests in on the table.

"He will pay," he speaks, voice low.

Who exactly he is talking to - to Kreyu? to Taweret? to the voices? - is unclear, but it doesn't matter. He has business to attend to. He leaves the arrow on the table and takes his leave.