Reed and Fern had lived long enough to understand the realities of their world.
Death wasn't something abstract or distant; it was part of the life cycle that everyone would eventually face. Every citizen served their military duty, everyone killed when the kingdom required it. It wasn't a question of morality, but of survival.
But seeing their barely eleven-year-old son standing over a corpse, blood dripping from his claws... that was different.
The metallic smell filled Ren's nostrils. The sticky texture on his hands, the warmth still emanating from the body, the way the man's eyes stared without seeing... everything was too real, too immediate.
His stomach revolted violently.
When he had killed Harold with the light ray, it had been distant, almost impersonal. A flash of energy and then nothing. This... this was intimate, visceral, undeniable. He could still feel the resistance of flesh giving way beneath his claws, the subtle vibration as bone cracked.
