Alexander was just Alex. The people who called him 'Alexander' only did that when he did something terrible. A good example of that was the time he got reprimanded when he didn't do well in his studies… and for those who called him 'Xander'—nobody but his mother called him that. And only his mother called him that.
But that was in the distant past.
The next thing he knew, he had blood on his hands. It was a crisp summer day, the soft breeze spread out the scent of roses and lavender, the labyrinthine maze encapsulated everywhere as far as one's eyes could see, and he had blood on his hands. Warmblood. Dark red blood. He never hated the color more than in this hour.
A figure behind him was shuddering and shaking as he stared at the blood with wornout and tired eyes. He had done it out of his own choice.
He couldn't hear his own heartbeat.
