"You misunderstand my words," he said. "Human life, especially the lives of common folk holds great value."
He tilted his head slightly, then gestured toward Erik.
"You can only see him," the godling continued. "But I can smell him."
"In your eyes, he is beautiful, calm, regal, composed. But my nose tells a different story. On him, I smell desperation… fear… uncertainty… and lust."
Each word landed like a blow.
"All of it tangled beneath the mask he presents to the world," the godling said. "And the lives we took? They are the cause of this. They pushed him into such a state."
He straightened slightly, his voice dropping.
"So no," he finished, "your lives are not meaningless."
Gram's fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The werewolf godling leaned in closer, his gaze searching Gram's face, waiting, perhaps, for defiance, for anger, for violence.
But Gram did nothing.
