Their boots squelched with every step, the blood beneath them long cooled but still thick, soaking deep into the earth like the screams that had been silenced hours ago.
Arawn now—walked as if burdened by invisible chains. Each movement slow, deliberate.
His body, still aching from the backlash of overusing his abilities, trembled faintly beneath the black coat that was now soaked in gore and soot.
His fingers twitched involuntarily, and sharp stabs of pain pulsed along the nerves of his arms, but his expression remained still. Cold.
Beside him, Rufus Everhart walked with small, hesitant steps. Though he'd grown used to death far too quickly for his age.
The silence was deeper. The shadows darker. And the look in Arawn's eyes—it wasn't just exhaustion.
It was rage.
A deep, bone-carving hatred that lingered in the air like smoke.
Then—footsteps.
Not from the bodies twitching in some dying spasm, nor the echo of falling debris. These were real.
One. Two. Three.
