Seven days. Seven days since the Crimson Hand had knelt before him, their defiance broken, their loyalty sworn.
Seven days since the clearing outside Silverstream had run red with the blood of bandits and the whispers of the fallen.
Seven days since the Voidwell's grip had tightened, its hands wrapping around his soul, its whispers echoing in his mind, a constant reminder of the power he wielded and the price he was paying.
The transformation of the Crimson Hand had been swift and brutal.
Under Red's iron fist, the once-lawless band of criminals had been molded into a semblance of a disciplined fighting force.
Their ragged attire had been replaced with the dark grey uniforms of the Caldrisian army, their mismatched weapons exchanged for standardized swords and spears. They still carried the air of hardened criminals, the scars of their past etched on their faces, but their eyes now held a flicker of something new: purpose. Fear. Respect.
