Ragar is heaving as he looks at the blood on his hands, his heart pounding as his sight zooms in on the horrendous liquid covering his skin. He feels like the ground he is standing on is shaking, condemning him of his wrongdoing, pointing out that he has worsened ever since he left Alhalla. He wanted to get out of here—far from the criticizing eyes, far from the consequence of what he has done. Because it is a terrible thing even if he is not the one who initiated it. Makt may have started the fight but it was he who ended it—the man’s blood on his hands, the man’s unmoving body in front of him.
His eyes darted at the lion's head on the ground. And for some reason, it was staring—staring deep into his soul as if trying to prove that he is no longer the same as when he was in Alhalla. Inde
