Aiden could finally walk properly again. His legs no longer trembled with every step, though the phantom ache of his wounds lingered in his muscles like a ghost refusing to leave. He moved carefully, as though each pace might still betray him. His body had found strength—but his eyes, his heart, his soul—they weren't so sure.
They weren't sure if it was okay to walk through this place as though it were still a city and not a grave.
Beside him, Arina moved swiftly, almost too swiftly, her boots crunching over broken tiles, her cloak trailing behind like a shard of night. Her face was set in grim determination, but her hand twitched once upon the hilt of her sword, as though even she could not keep still in this silence of massacre. She tried to sickle away her awareness of it, tried to cut down the sight with the blade of her will.
But Aiden could not.
He could not help but look. Could not help but see.
