[Realm: Álfheimr]
[Location: The Great Forest]
Grimm watched as the lion struggled to rise, blood staining its maw.
It was not the first time he had watched something powerful attempt to stand after being broken—but the way the creature did it now was almost humiliating. The lion's chest heaved unevenly, the rise and fall of its ribs visibly wrong, and every breath came with a wet rasp that dragged red along its teeth.
Grimm didn't move despite that.
Though his expression was hidden, his posture told one all you needed to know. His form was not tense and his blade was held low, as if he had no use for it. He had lost interest.
There was something about that lack of tension that felt worse than cruelty. The lion could have understood anger. It could have understood hatred. It could have understood the frantic, feral thrill of a hunter.
But this?
This was a man standing over it like a lord looking down at mud. No, it was more than that. A God looking down on a gnat.
