The pungent smell of burned flesh invaded his nostrils as he got closer to the source of commotion, and smoke entered his eyes.
Screams of terror and desperation filled the air, and the sound of metal clashing against metal rang through his ears.
Michael grit his teeth at the sight of the half-burned corpses of his people that entered his sight the moment he came close to the thicket that separated him from the terror of the battlefield.
For the first time, Michael's subjects were dying. It was not comparable to the time he had killed Fenrir. On the contrary, Michael's heart felt like a searing hot needle was stabbing it again and again while his head grew heavier the more people died.
His mind was a mess and he regretted being too late to protect everyone. He had failed to save those who he had sworn to protect.
