The Blood That Divides
The scream still rang in Lena’s ears.
The chamber of the watchtower stank of copper and smoke, of fear rising thick as mist. Bran’s body lay near the fire, his gray hair matted with blood, Dominic’s knife buried deep in his chest.
The group pressed in around the corpse like moths around flame. Some wept. Some whispered. All stared at Dominic.
Dominic stood stiff, his broad shoulders tense, fire flickering faintly under his skin. His sword was still belted, untouched—but his hunting knife lay where it shouldn’t, hilt deep in Bran’s body.
“I didn’t do this,” he said, his voice rough as stone. His eyes locked on Lena, desperate, pleading. “You know I didn’t.”
But the firelight painted him in crimson, and the silence that followed was louder than any denial.
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