Altan turned toward Mirakos, a grin still curling across his face, streaks of crimson blood smudged across his lips and jawline, standing out starkly against the pale hue of his skin.
His steps were deliberate, slow, almost savoring the moment as he advanced toward the boy. The numerous piles of bodies that littered the floor made each step slightly more difficult, a grotesque landscape of fallen lives, limbs splayed in unnatural positions, blood pooling thickly around them.
The viscous liquid, still warm, clung to Altan's boots, each squelching footstep a sickening reminder of the massacre that had just unfolded in this enclosed space.
Each of those corpses had once been people, individuals with families, friends, lives filled with mundane and extraordinary moments.
Each of those people had destinies—jobs they might never return to, places they would never see again, appointments forever missed.
