It's a dangerous feint, and while Fenris had hoped for the impossible favor of two mistakes in a row-- lean in, come closer, let me feel your lack of breath-- he hadn't depended on it. He just needed an assurance that the bastard would stay put.

He does feel ill, is the thing. His strength feels scrambled. His mind is unfocused. But he is accustomed to working in poor circumstances. He fought on no food, no sleep, an ill used tool in the jungles of Seheron where fire falls as casually as rain. So he exaggerated his weakness, in this moment, hoping for a slip of overconfidence.

But there is a limit to how much Fenris will risk, and it is the undead gathering at his back that makes him pull the spring. He is ill. He is capable of rushing forward for another precision lunge. This time he does not grasp at the throat. An old habit, perhaps, but Fenris reaches for the heart, blue light flaring ever brighter.