Chapter 9 - 8 - The Blood on His Hands
Tears slowly fell from Mira’s eyes, wetting her cheeks streaked with dust and the cold breath of night. The little girl stood trembling, her voice shaking as she finally spoke, "I... I’m really scared of you now, brother."
The words pierced Riven like a cold blade. He remained frozen in place, his body stiff like stone. His eyes dropped to his hands.
Those hands... were soaked in blood. Not just the fingers and palms, but his tattered sleeves, the ragged cloak he wore, even his boots—everything stank of iron and the stench of death. A blend of fresh and dried blood, battlefield mud, and ash clung to him like a second skin.
Riven slowly lifted one hand, staring at the dried blood caught between his fingers. Whose blood was it? He no longer knew. Whose corpse had he touched, scavenged, dragged—just for a broken blade or a dented piece of armor?
He felt sick.
Not from the blood. Not from the stink of death clinging to his flesh. But from himself.
Monster.
That was the only word that echoed in his mind as he saw his reflection in his sister’s eyes.
"Every time you come back from picking weapons off the corpses... you change," Mira continued, her voice cracking. "You used to smile wide... used to laugh so freely... but now, you’re getting colder and colder..."
Riven said nothing.
He wanted to speak. To explain. To defend himself. But no words came. Because any word felt false in the face of that truth.