[Going to go ahead and say Rostislav killed Öde since Silk is on a long term absence <3]

A figure stands above the fallen boy. A wolf to be exact. He is neither here, nor there, not really anywhere, but also everywhere at once. He is death, or at the very least, he is dead - and now so was Öde.

He stands above the fallen boy, paws set on either side of the line that is his neck. He heralds a moment which cannot be undone, a moment that should not be undone.
With a face as pale as ash - the feathered edge curling up from a burnt and blackened thing - the reaper's dog touches the stiffening corpse of a foolish child. It is neither grief nor wonder that instills the intimate connection of his cold nose upon the cold horse flesh. He is no loyal hound come to pay respects to a passed master, nor a beast fulfilling duty waged in the life that comes after.

No, he is a dog of war.

He stands above the fallen boy, jaws split wide to reveal the rows of pointed fangs which gleam in the moonlight; shiny with spit and blood and hate. Gently he reaches down, those sharp gnashers pressed there, just against the curve of the felled stallion's throat. He doesn't do anything at first but set them there, feeling the dry rub of dark hair against the smooth curve of his enamel, the way it muscle and its fat bent away from his pressure - bowing to a known king. Somewhere back where the lips end and the face begins, the line creases, twisted with a grin which is haunting in every manner.

Eyes flecked with gold and green flash, rimmed by the monochrome body, as those beautiful, wonderful, deadly teeth are forced into the murdered meat. A violent growl resonates from the depths of the dog's chest as he bites down, a warning to all the rest (who else is there, in this in-between? [many, so so many...]), as his head starts thrashing side to side. Pink froth envelops those snarling lips as he yanks, tugs, and pulls on the jugular, slinging spittle like garland to decorate this grave. He has taken an impossibly large bite - he can't tear off such a huge chunk, even if its dead, but he doesn't release, whether stubborn or hungry or both.

Neither.

Those teeth are seeking something deeper, and once they catch hold, he pinches it. Only then, at long last, does the wolf yank his maw free, dragging the boy with him into the dark.
Well, part of the boy anyway, because the body still sits there, marked by the wolf that never was.