Ronan
The snow drinks blood well.
It sinks into the white in delicate threads, steam curling off it like breath from a dying mouth. The trees are silent now. Still. Even the crows keep their distance.
I rise from the mess at my feet and wipe the blade clean on a dead man’s coat.
Three Redmaw scouts. Two are already dead, one is half-alive and pissing himself when I pin him to the tree with a dagger through his thigh.
He doesn’t give me anything useful, just confirmation of what my senses are already telling me.
“We saw him. The Omega. On the east ridge. Alone. Dirk and Vincent were the fastest, they went after him.” Then he screamed a bit more before the end.
Good.
I want them to scream.
I want him to scream.
My boots crunch through the c*****e as I move toward the trail again.
