Death, Lillia had learnt, did not always arrive alone. Sometimes, it loomed like a shadow, watching and waiting.
Most times, like a Maestro, it orchestrated its instruments of destruction with cruel precision. Other times, it simply acted, leaving witnesses to watch the aftermath, powerless to intervene.
But not everyone cowered before it. No matter the face it wore.
When her blood and sweat had soaked the earth, and her strength bled out in the unforgiving forest of Clearwater, she had thought of Pete. In her moment of desperation, when survival demanded intervention, he had appeared. And done nothing. He had stood there in silence, eyes fixed on her failing body, as though her death was an inevitability he merely needed to observe. Not worth fighting.
But tonight was different.
