❛ When I drift off, I will dream about you. Always you.❜

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

The blood on his fingers was still slick, stark against the paleness of his skin and left prints along the hilt of the sword, branding the weapon of its crime.

His blue gaze flicked around him, taking in the carnage, the show, the play, the dance of blood and death, the cries of those still dying like an orchestra. It echoed around him, a tune that he let hum in his chest, let dull that familiar bloodlust.

The war drum of his heart slowed in his ears and he registered the whimpering—the broken, husky sound—with a tilt of his head. He turned, taking in the girl before him like he would any wounded animal.

She knelt among the blood of the soldiers, trembling like a terrified foal without a mother. She stared, black eyes wide and watery, and reflected within them were the flames of the village, lighting up the night with a hazy orange glow.

The girl wept, blood trickled down her cheeks, the droplets racing one another. Her fingers curled in the emerald grass beneath her and his gaze settled on the markings on her right hand, glowing gold like the flames that licked at the place she called home.

He stepped before her, towering over her, trapping her in his shadow. She looked up at him, too young to fully comprehend what had happened, but old enough to carry the emotion of it.

He removed his black helmet—the steel speckled with blood—and dropped it along with the bodies that littered the grass around them, wearing the same armour he was. Then he offered the little girl his hand, fingers stained with crimson.

"Come," he ordered. "It's time to leave this place behind, little flame."

And because she had no one and nothing else, she took his hand.