The village had fallen silent. Only the crackle of burning wood and the soft moans of the dying remained.
Rhys lay still in the dirt, unmoving—his blood soaked into the earth as if even the ground mourned.
Hans and Richard stood over him, their chests heaving, the adrenaline still pumping… but there was nothing left to fight.
Nothing but the horror of what they'd done.
And witch they failed to hunt.
Richard looked around to see the bodies of villagers littered the streets—men, women, even the elderly—slain by his blade.
Blood clung to his armor like a second skin. His golden sword, once a symbol of purity, now dulled and stained, slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground.
He fell to his knees, trembling.
Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, streaking the soot on his face.
"What have I done…?" he whispered, voice cracking, almost childlike in its despair.
