Draven finally let out a long, steadying breath, his gaze lingering on the battered remains of the orc he had so brutally finished. His hands were still stained with green blood, and he stared at them for a moment, flexing his fingers. The anger that had been simmering inside him slowly ebbed away, replaced by the cold, clear logic that defined him.
"Lost my composure," he murmured, almost to himself. He wiped his hands clean with an expression of detachment. Then, glancing at Sylara, who was still watching him cautiously, he said, "My apologies, Sylara. I... let it get the better of me." His voice was flat, but there was a weight to the words, as though admitting any mistake pained him.
He looked up, his eyes sharp, and his demeanor shifted back into something commanding. "Come on. Let's go. Bring the chimeras."
