A slap echoed through a small area where rows of gray headstones stretched across all directions.
The source of that slap was just before one of those seemingly newly placed headstones.
There, one could see a man with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side, while a woman with a reddened hand huffed and puffed in front of him, barely containing her anger.
That man was Emir, and yes, he had gotten slapped.
His cheek barely stung; he almost didn't feel it, but that didn't matter to those around him.
Kiera and her people, eyes burning with grief, moved forward to take her away.
But they were stopped by a single raised hand.
Emir's hand.
"Back off."
His cold voice made them think that he was about to kill the poor woman.
And the way he looked at her—empty, detached—could've broken anyone, brought them to their knees.
Yet, even in the face of death, she didn't step back.
"My son... my only son."
