The scent was subtle, yet unmistakable.
Coppery. Thick. Lingering in the air like an invisible hand closing around his throat.
Blood.
Vazer moved toward it as if drawn by an unseen force, his body reacting before his mind could process the horror awaiting him. The smell was rich with something beyond mere violence—this wasn't fresh blood from a simple wound. This was deep, old, soaked into the very fibers of the air itself.
Vazer's steps faltered as he drew closer, the metallic tang of blood thick in his nostrils. The scent wasn't fresh—it had settled into the very air, soaked into the walls, the furniture, the very bones of this wretched room.
His gaze locked onto the severed head sitting on the windowsill.
It wasn't sloppily discarded. It had been placed there. Positioned with cruel precision, as if meant to be a spectacle, a trophy.
