Theron's gaze lingered on the scarlet hue of his blood, the dripping moonlight reflecting across its surface and almost tinging it with a violet hue.
It ran down his fingers so easily, so fragile, so loose, falling to the ground only to slide off into the ether, lost and forgotten.
It was an odd melancholy for such a minor wound, and Theron found himself distracted by it for a moment. Was that him? Or was that…
Theron looked toward where the gaze had to have come from. There was nothing there, nothing that he could see with his eyes alone, anyway. And he no longer felt that blade pressing up against him.
But he was sure that it had come from there.
It was oddly only all the more sad that he couldn't tell where this feeling was coming from.
There was a flash in the skies and Theron slowly turned around. There, on the opposite side of the palace's rounded roof, a young man stood. He swayed from side to side on a lightning rod, and yet his sword was like his counterbalance.
