Malik sat alone, his back against the charred remains of a cart.
His hands were covered in dried blood—his, theirs, he didn't know anymore.
The battlefield had long since gone quiet, but the ghosts still screamed in his ears.
He had killed hundreds, maybe even thousands, tonight; honestly, he had lost count.
This feeling... he hated it.
Yes, he knew, saw, and accepted. But still. It all left a bad taste in his mouth.
Though he had only killed filth, those dumb enough to bow to filth and those unfortunate enough to be chained to filth, the act itself still affected him.
His heat had long since faded, replaced by the kind of cold that sank into bones, making the ash that floated through the air feel like a strange-looking snow.
He sat there, breathing that smoke, waiting for something to break the stillness.
And then, not long after, that 'something' finally came.
It was the flutter of wings.
