'He's lost everything,' I thought as I studied him. 'There's nothing left for him.'
That empty look was familiar.
It reminded me of myself, of the days when I had wandered with no purpose other than to die—when I had clung to vengeance, but without the strength or means to do anything about it. Back then, my eyes had been just like his.
Dead, but still walking.
The boy hadn't flinched when Zharokath was about to devour him. He had stood there, accepting his fate without question.
No fear, no resistance—just the quiet acceptance that death was inevitable.
That kind of resignation only came from a life of suffering, from being ground down until the will to live was crushed completely
