The meaning of the word exhausted couldn't really express how he felt while he dragged his feet on the long staircase. Every step was pure pain, his aching muscles complaining with stabs of pain. Was he getting old? That surely couldn't be it. He was only two hundred and twenty seven years old, someone would say he was in his prime time. He hadn't fought like that for a while, training at the palace was nothing compared to that bastard's punches.
Xans topped at the top of the stairs, his palm landing on his knee and he hissed. Hand in hand combat was always to their disadvantage when it came to werewolves. Mikain wasn't really wrong when he talked about pointy swords. In a swordfight, Xan thought he would have sliced him without even breaking a sweat. When his muscles relaxed a bit and the healing began he sighed, relieved that the pain was slowly lessening.
