Veythor stood still, his hands stained crimson with Dasha's blood. The girl lay motionless on the earth... her body hollow, her soul already gone. A faint trickle still ran from her throat, tracing quiet rivers through the dust. He took a step back, careful, deliberate.
If her blood touches my feet, they'll trace me easily, he thought, his gaze flickering downward.
The night was silent now—eerily so. Not even the forest breathed. Only the distant whisper of wind answered him, cold and indifferent. His eyes drifted toward Raika and Shimi. Their faces were still, lost in sleep, unaware of what the night had claimed.
"They'll play their roles soon enough," he murmured under his breath.
Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the tribe's distant fires, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his lips. That smile wasn't human... it was a promise, sharpened and venomous.
"Time to finish this matter," he whispered, and the wind seemed to carry his words into the dying dark.
