As Lord Tomar put an end to the brawl and the guards dragged him away, Hairan could feel the weight of many eyes pressing against his back. The gathered spectators gawked at him openly, their hushed whispers slithering through the crowd like a restless tide.
He didn't need a mirror to know how pitiful he must have looked. His once impeccable clothes were now caked with dirt, the fine embroidery torn in several places. His hair, usually styled with meticulous care, was a tangled mess, matted with streaks of blood that trickled down from the gash on the side of his head. When Ragnar had slammed his skull against the ground, it had burst open with a dull, wet crack. Now, sticky strands of hair clung to his temple and forehead, the faint coppery smell of blood clinging to him like a second skin.
