Darkness smothered the forest like a heavy, damp pillow as Traian surgically picked his way through the underbrush. The wind was growing stronger, making the trees sway and groan. In the distance, he could just barely see the faint glimmers of the campfire.
The Hrithmore were close.
Silently, he drew his sword, the sword that had taken more lives than he had ever imagined itwould take.
All those people… All those poor, innocent…
No.
Now was not the time.
Now was the time to focus.
He pulled up his sleeve and looked at the spiderweb tattoo on his left arm. The mark always managed to get his mind back on track. Always reminded him that what he was doing was right.
Right?
Focus!
He crept closer to the camp, and, despite the tattoo on his arm, he couldn’t help but feel that another part of his soul was about to die.
Voices in the camp were singing songs of praise. Voices of children.
The rain began to fall.