Medas's voice was sharp, his frustration clear. "You were tasked to do what?!"
Morvane stood frozen, the words caught in his throat. He couldn't answer, not with Medas glaring at him, demanding the truth.
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed in the distance. A figure emerged from the shadows—Crimson, his deep red hair disheveled and his clothes stained with blood. His movements were slow, but there was a resolute strength in his stride.
"What's going on here?" Crimson's voice cut through the tension as his eyes swept over them. Despite his injuries, his presence was commanding.
Medas turned, his frustration briefly replaced with concern. "Crimson, you're—"
"Injured," Crimson interrupted, brushing him off. "I'm fine. I asked what's going on."
Morvane avoided Crimson's gaze, guilt clawing at him. Before anyone could answer, Medas's eyes shifted past Crimson to something on the ground. His expression darkened as he stepped closer.
