Sardaan had seen many dead warriors. The life of a Lathar was often brutal and violent. Death was an inevitable part of it. Battles were common, injuries even more so, and he’d been to pay his respects in halls like this many times before. It never got any easier.
Aariin was laid out on the altar, beneath the symbol of the mother goddess. Like all warriors he wore his leathers, his weapons at his side for his journey to the life beyond. Sardaan took a few steps forward to reach the altar.
Isan had done a good job. Apart from the fact he was pale, Sardaan could almost believe the young warrior was asleep. The horrendous wound that had almost cleaved his chest in two was covered by his combat jacket, the edge of a sealed wound just visible by his throat.
Sardaan rubbed a hand over his eye
