The moment the door swings shut behind me, I know something's wrong.
It hits me first—the smell. Metallic, acrid, and clinging to the air like smoke. Blood. Not the faint, coppery tang of a scraped knuckle, but dark, heavy blood that fills your lungs when you breathe it in. I stop mid-step, my fingers tightening on the tray, and scan the room.
There's a chair overturned by the far wall, splinters scattered across the floor like someone threw it—or someone—hard enough to break it. A table shoved sideways, its edges stained with black smears. And the bodies. Two of them, crumpled in heaps, their dark skin slick with blood that's pooling in the cracks of the wooden floor.
Legions.
Before I can react, I hear it—a sharp grunt, the clatter of boots against the floorboards.
