Antonin Dolohav had murdered many, many people in his life. He had murdered his sister's dog when his parents had thrown her a surprise birthday. He murdered his first wife when he discovered she was stepping out. He had murdered men, women, and children. Old and Young. Elder statesmen, shopkeepers, students. Antonin had even cast the curse that murdered the Prewett twins.
But he had never expected to be murdered. Especially not by the ancient little halfbreed that had taught him charms. As he gasps his last breath and watches his internal organs ooze out of the foot long gash in his stomach, he supposes that his death is oddly fitting in a way.