They had been careless, their long-time brutalization of the weak leading their nerves down a dark path. They were bloodthirsty, yet foolish. They had failed to closely examine the wounds on the horses—wounds far greater than those caused by crossbow bolts—and they had ignored the black blood flowing on the ground. They were merely searching for those three lads scurrying away like rabbits, with nothing else in their bloodshot eyes even as the black nooses tightened around their necks.
Nia stood in the woods like a tree. Her branches were smeared with sinful blood, soaking the soil. With the faint light filtering through the leaves bestowing her, she resembled an eerie yet sacred cross, offering the last reprieve to the mortally sickened sin.
